by Laura Wilson
He necked the remains of his fourth drink, slammed the glass onto the table and rose unsteadily, heading away from the smoke, noise and sweat into the fresher air of the street. I know where you live, you bastard.
Walking mechanically, his body deadened by the fug of brandy in his brain, he set off towards the bus stop. I’ll fix you, you wait.
Fifty-Eight
With a heavy heart, Stratton left Fay to the mercies of Cudlipp and Policewoman Harris. It was his own fault – he’d been an idiot to tell her that she’d only have to make a statement. Fay clearly felt betrayed, and he couldn’t blame her. The fact that she’d accepted it all, and allowed herself to be led away by Miss Harris without fuss just made it worse. He stood in the lobby of West End Central, rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to erase the image of her reproachful face, and decided that it was time to call it a day before he cocked up anything else – not that home was much of a prospect with that bloody woman mooning about the place. He’d said goodnight to the desk sergeant and had just walked out of the door when Ballard appeared on the steps, breathless and waving a piece of paper.
‘Thank goodness I’ve caught you, sir. It’s about Dacre. I managed to get hold of someone at St Andrews. A James Walter Dacre did train there, and he graduated in 1938, but’ – Ballard’s eyes gleamed with excitement – ‘he died in thirty-nine. Car smash, sir.’
‘So our man,’ concluded Stratton, ‘must have taken his identity. But those certificates looked genuine enough.’
‘He might have stolen them, sir. The St Andrews people gave me the next-of-kin: his mother, Mrs Beatrice Dacre, of 16, Buckingham Gardens, Norbury, SW.’
‘We’ll see her tomorrow,’ said Stratton. ‘Let’s just hope she’s still there. Right now, we’d better get round to the hospital and see if we can find the man himself. Come on.’
At the Middlesex, an irritable and exhausted Dr Ransome told them that Dacre had left for the day. They trooped back outside, and Stratton consulted his notebook. ‘According to the hospital’s records, he lives in Eversholt Street, by Euston Station. We’d better go and see. Too late to do anything about a warrant to search his rooms, but we might be able to find him. I’m beginning to think,’ he added, ‘that it’s just as well Fay Marchant is in custody. At least she’s safely out of his clutches.’
‘Quite, sir.’ As they began walking towards the Euston Road, Ballard added, ‘Bit run-down for a doctor, sir. You’d think he’d live somewhere smarter.’
‘Except that he probably isn’t a doctor.’
‘That’s true, sir, but all the same…’
Stratton knew what the sergeant meant. Eversholt Street was dingy and, even before the war, uncared for, with the anonymous air of transience common to places near large railway stations. The landlady at number 28, Mrs Draper, was a large woman in a low-cut dress, with a three-string necklace of creases round her throat and more at her tightly squeezed cleavage. She ushered them into a dark hallway that smelt of damp and paraffin. Having ascertained that Dacre – or whoever he was – wasn’t currently on the premises, Stratton asked when he had moved into the house. ‘Only a few weeks ago, Inspector. Just before the end of June. Paid a month in advance.’
‘Could you check the exact date, please?’
‘Why? What’s going on? This is a respectable house.’
‘I’m sure it is, Mrs Draper. If you could just consult your book for us…?’
Mrs Draper disappeared down the hallway and returned a moment later carrying a ledger. She licked her finger and grubbed up the corners of pages until she found the right place, then thrust the book under Stratton’s nose. ‘There you are…Dr Dacre arrived on the twenty-fifth of June.’
‘Two weeks before he started work at the hospital,’ said Stratton, when they were back on the pavement, heading towards the Euston Road, ‘and two days after Todd left the Middlesex. We’d better go to Kentish Town…’ Stratton consulted his notebook. ‘Inkerman Road.’
Inkerman Road turned out to be another dingy street of flat-fronted Victorian terraced houses, many with boarded-up windows. Number 14, although it had retained most of its glass, was decorated by a small wrought-iron first floor balcony slewed at such an extreme angle that it looked as if it might fall off at any moment.
A thickset young tough answered the door. ‘We’re looking for a Mrs Barnard,’ said Stratton.
The man looked them up and down, turned and bellowed, ‘Ma!’ then disappeared.
‘I don’t think he liked us, sir,’ murmured Ballard.
‘Evidently.’
‘What do you want?’ The waistless, bulbous-nosed woman who stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on her overall was, fairly obviously, the man’s mother.
‘Mrs Barnard?’
Taking the grunt which greeted this question as assent, Stratton said, ‘I believe you had a Mr Todd lodging with you until recently.’
‘I already told the other copper about that. He’s not here any more. What’s he done, anyway?’
‘Nothing, so far as we know,’ said Stratton, blandly. ‘When did he leave?’
Mrs Barnard pursed her lips, then said, ‘Ooh…somewhere round the middle of June, it was…no, I tell a lie – it was the twenty-fifth.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’
‘Yes. I remember it because my Jimmy was took bad with his heart. It’s a weakness. The doctors can’t do nothing for it. I was ever so worried – he was laid up for three days.’
‘That was Jimmy who came to the door, was it?’
‘That’s right.’
By the look of Jimmy, thought Stratton, he was more likely to have been laid up by a brawl or a hangover, and milked it for all it was worth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘he seems to have made a good recovery. Did Mr Todd give a reason for leaving?’
Mrs Barnard thought for a moment, then said, ‘Got a new job, didn’t he? Somewhere north.’
‘You’re sure he hadn’t been called up?’
‘Oh, no. He had a medical exemption certificate, same as my Jimmy. He told me.’
‘Did you ever see the certificate?’
Mrs Barnard looked nonplussed. ‘What would I want to see it for?’
‘Can you show us your son’s certificate, please?’
Mrs Barnard narrowed her eyes. ‘What do you want to see that for? My Jimmy’s a good lad.’
‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Barnard. If you don’t mind…’
‘All right,’ she said ungraciously. ‘It’s in his room.’
She returned a couple of minutes later carrying a battered cake tin, with Jimmy lowering behind her. ‘In here.’ She prised open the lid. The tin was empty.
‘Interesting,’ said Stratton, as they headed off. ‘Unless Jimmy Barnard sold his certificate to someone – which I suppose is possible, if unlikely – then I think our friend must have pinched it for his own use. Mind you, we’d better play safe and check that it actually exists.’
‘I’ll do that tomorrow, sir.’
‘Good. Now…’ Stratton thought aloud. ‘According to Higgs, Todd was called up. Mrs Barnard has just confirmed that he left here on the same day that the false Dr Dacre moved into Eversholt Street. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think? If Dacre and Todd are one and the same, that means that he was at the Middlesex when not just one, but all of the deaths occurred. Now, I’m not sure there’s any more that we can do tonight, and as Nurse Marchant is in safe hands, I suggest we both cut off home and we’ll see what Mrs Dacre has to say tomorrow morning.’
Stratton looked at his watch. If he went home now, he’d be in time to collect Jenny from the Rest Centre. It would be a gesture of goodwill – she’d like that – and perhaps he could persuade her into the pub for a short while. She wasn’t usually keen, regarding it as a male preserve, but perhaps this time she’d agree, and they could have a bit of a chat away from Mrs Ingram. Try to persuade her that the bloody woman would be better off elsewhere before she drove them all mad. It needn’t be long,
and there’d still be time for her to get supper…It was a good plan. Things were starting to move on the investigation and now, with luck, they’d get back to normal at home, too. Stratton, suddenly cheerful at the thought of inveigling Jenny into the pub, clapped Ballard on the shoulder and bade him goodnight.
Fifty-Nine
The bus ride sobered Dacre, not to the extent of diverting him from his chosen course, but enough to make him realise that he had no actual plan for what to do when he arrived at Stratton’s house. Stepping down from the platform he stood for a moment, uncertain, in Tottenham High Street. The people passing, heads down, jostled him. It’s all right for you, he thought, glaring after them. You’ve got your lives, your women. No-one’s trying to take them from you.
Still, no plan came into his mind, just the desperate, repeated thought that he must regain control of his life. Now to find the house…Before, when he’d followed the big policeman home, he’d got off the bus, crossed the road, and…that’s right, they’d passed this bakery, and the house with the tall hedge – he remembered that – and then a right turn, and then…
Here it was. Number 27. He opened the gate, went up the front path, grabbed the door knocker and beat it down, hard, several times. He could hear the noise reverberate through the small house, but no-one came. He must be here, he must…He was a married man, wasn’t he? Where else would he be at the end of the day? The pub, perhaps?
He deliberated. He could hardly walk about trying to find Stratton and making himself conspicuous. He chewed his lip, coming to no conclusion, then, at last, hearing quiet footsteps coming down the stairs, knocked again. What if Stratton’s wife were there? He hadn’t considered that…He was wondering whether to call through the letter box or just wait, when he saw a woman waving from the other side of the garden gate. ‘Are you all right?’ Her voice had a thready, bleating sound. ‘I saw you out here – I’m from next door. Mr Stratton’s not home yet – he’s a copper, works all sorts of hours. Mrs Stratton’ll be at the Rest Centre, if it’s her you’re wanting.’
‘I was looking for Mr Stratton.’
‘Well, I don’t rightly know what to suggest – never know when he’ll be back. I could give him a message, if you like.’
‘I’m afraid it’s rather confidential.’
The woman looked disappointed. ‘Well, I suppose he might be at the Swan, or up at his allotment. If you’re wanting to speak to him urgently, then I’d try the Rest Centre first, see if Mrs Stratton knows where he is.’
‘I will. Thank you. If you could point me in the right direction…?’
Dacre set off in the direction indicated, and found the Rest Centre – a converted school – without difficulty. Seeing no-one around, he wandered into a classroom where a woman was sorting through heaps of clothes. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for Mrs Stratton.’
‘She’ll be in the kitchen. Go down the corridor, right at the end, through the big room and turn left.’
‘Thank you.’
Dacre followed her instructions, and found himself in the big room, which, judging by the wood panelling, the crest and the row of dreary oil paintings of stern-looking men in academic garb, had previously been the school hall. He crossed the parquet floor and was about to exit in the direction of the kitchen when the door he’d come through flew open and a small, dishevelled-looking woman rushed towards him.
‘Can you help me? Please?’ Her voice was shrill and distressed, and, as she came closer, Dacre saw that the thick woollen coat she clutched tightly round her was – as well as being too warm for the season – far too large for her tiny frame. Her hair had fallen down at one side, and her eyes were frantic.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Have you seen her?’
Must be a flying-bomb victim, Dacre thought, searching for relatives – her children, perhaps. ‘If you’re looking for someone,’ he said, gently, ‘there’s a lady down the corridor who might know. Shall I take you to her?’
‘No, no. She might be one of them.’
‘Them?’
‘Yes. Will you help me? Please?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Dacre. It wouldn’t hurt, he decided. Stratton’s wife wasn’t going to go anywhere, and the big policeman was bound to come home at some point, so he could always go back to the house. Besides, the woman looked so pitiful, so afraid and bewildered, that he couldn’t just leave her.
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you.’
‘Why don’t you come and sit down?’ Dacre indicated the line of hard wooden chairs at the side of the room.
‘Yes,’ said the woman. ‘Thank you.’
Perched on the edge of one of the chairs, shivering, knees squeezed together, she said, ‘Will you help me? There’s no-one else.’
She’s obviously lost everyone, thought Dacre. Staring at this pathetic scrap of forlorn humanity that trembled beside him, he said, ‘What’s the trouble?’
‘It’s her. Them. All of them.’
‘All of who?’
‘These people. They keep sending him back.’
‘Sending who back?’
The woman stared at him, seemingly paralysed by fear. Start at the beginning, Dacre told himself. Try to get some sense out of her. Perhaps she was concussed – it would certainly account for her state. ‘I’m Dr Dacre,’ he said. ‘What’s—’
‘You’re one of them.’ She drew back, her eyes flicking between the doors at either end of the room, measuring the distance, wondering if she could make a run for it.
‘No,’ said Dacre. ‘I’m not. I can help you.’
‘How do I know that?’
Perhaps she wasn’t concussed, Dacre thought. Perhaps it was more than that. ‘Because I’m only pretending to be a doctor. I had to, to get away from them. What’s your name?’
‘Ingram. I can see you’re not really a doctor, now. You don’t look like the other one. He kept asking me questions.’
‘Tell me about the other doctor,’ said Dacre.
‘Makepeace. He’s their doctor. Her doctor. Keeps giving me stuff, but I’ve not been taking it. I know his game.’
‘Very sensible,’ said Dacre. ‘I’d have done exactly the same.’
‘I put it down the lav,’ she said conspiratorially.
A him – the one that they kept sending back – and a her. Paranoid delusion, thought Dacre, play along with it. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘They don’t fool me, either. I’ve managed to escape from them, you see. That’s why I can help you.’
‘It started when my house was bombed,’ she said. ‘Or that’s what they told me. I remember something, but I’m not sure what it was. Horrible. They said it came down on top of me, but they tell lies, so I don’t know if that’s what happened. Then they started with all this, saying they were trying to help me, but they’ve taken Eric, and I don’t know what they’ve done with him.’
‘Who’s Eric?’
‘My husband. He’s in the army, or he was, before…There’s this other man who looks like him. They hired him because he looks like Eric. I don’t know how they thought they could fool me, because you always know, don’t you?’
‘Of course you do. This man, he claims to be your husband, does he?’
‘That’s right. But I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. Do you understand what I’m talking about?’
‘Yes, I do. Does he sound like Eric?’
‘Oh, they’ve got everything right. They’re very clever with what they can do nowadays. Perverted science, that’s what Mr Churchill called it. I don’t know why they want to behave like that when I’ve done nothing to them.’
Dacre remembered the psychiatry textbook. A rare disorder…A person believes that someone has been replaced by an imposter of identical appearance and behaviour…Something like that, at any rate. What was it called? ‘Who got everything right?’ he asked.
‘Them.’
Cat-something? No, that wasn’t it. ‘What are their names?’
Mrs
Ingram’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘I thought you knew them.’
Cat…Cag…What was it? ‘I do. But they use different people. Agents. You can see why – from their point of view, I mean.’
Cap…Capgras, that was it. The Capgras Delusion. It must be. His first diagnosis. He bet no-one else knew what was wrong with her. If he were a psychiatrist, he’d be able to write it up. He could make a study of it. He imagined himself lecturing to a hall full of students.
‘Mr and Mrs Kerr, it was. Now it’s Mrs Stratton.’
‘And Inspector Stratton?’
‘Inspector? Do you know him? How do you know him?’
Dacre’s mind raced. Her agitation was such that he felt afraid of going near her in the same unhappy, unreasoning way that he was afraid of birds when they got into rooms and beat up and down trying to get out: an absolute, visceral terror. ‘They’ve been after me, too.’
‘They didn’t tell me he was a policeman. Oh…’ Mrs Ingram shook her head. ‘Very clever. A policeman. We’ve got to find her.’ She stood up, and, as she did so, one side of the heavy coat fell open and Dacre saw, concealed inside, something long and thin, wrapped in newspaper, a wooden handle protruding from the top. Jesus…Dacre felt sick. What was she going to do?
‘Come on,’ she hissed.
‘We don’t know where she is,’ said Dacre, desperately. ‘She may not be here at all.’