by Mike Hollow
‘Caught up in some other emergency on her way to the post, perhaps?’ said Cradock.
‘Possibly, but we can’t wait for her. I want to see what Dr Anderson’s found out. We’ll take the car back to the station, then stroll up to the hospital.’
They set off up the road to where Jago had left his Riley.
‘We’ll catch up with Mrs Parks later,’ Jago continued. ‘I want you to get fingerprints from Evans, and Mrs Parks and the dead woman too. See what prints you can find on the door handles and windows. And when we get back to the station, arrange for someone to come and secure that back door.’
‘Yes, sir. What did you make of it, sir? The door, I mean.’
‘In what sense?’
‘Well, there’s a woman murdered in the house, but the door was locked on the inside. So does that mean she must’ve known her killer – let him in?’
‘Of course not. The fact that the door was locked when the body was found doesn’t mean it was locked when she was killed. Someone could’ve found the door unlocked and got in, then locked it behind them, killed her and let themselves out the front way, as we did.’
‘Yes, of course. And they wouldn’t necessarily have had to come in through the back door anyway, would they? They might’ve just knocked on the front door.’
‘Indeed. On the face of it that would be simpler. But there’s the question of when she was killed too. If it was after dark, she might not have wanted to risk opening the door to a stranger, in which case it might suggest she knew them, might even have been expecting them. But on the other hand, these days if someone like an ARP warden had knocked and asked to be admitted she might well have let them in.’
‘And that business of the blackout curtains, sir. It’s a bit unusual for people to put a light on without closing them, isn’t it? Especially when it means they might get fined. So maybe she came home with the murderer and switched the light on, but before she had time to realise she hadn’t drawn the curtains she was dragged into the bedroom and killed. If the murderer left in a hurry via the front door, he might’ve just forgotten to go back to the kitchen and turn the light off.’
‘An interesting theory.’
‘Or perhaps it was that thing that sometimes happens with the meters. You know – the electricity runs out and all the lights go off, so you put another shilling in the slot and they come on again, but you forget to go and turn off the ones you don’t need. Maybe she did that and never went to check the light in the kitchen was off.’
‘Yes, but don’t forget it’s possible that she came home and never got as far as the kitchen before she was killed. The murderer might’ve gone looking for something in the kitchen after he’d killed her, and put the light on without thinking, then left. Who knows? We’ve got too many possibilities to be sure of anything.’
Their route from Carpenters Road to the police station in West Ham Lane was free of obstruction, and they arrived within minutes. A little later they took the short walk back up the road to Queen Mary’s Hospital. As far as they could see, no bombs had fallen close during the night, but ambulances were still edging through the brick-and-stone entrance archway. The hospital had lost a whole wing to a direct hit in the opening days of the Blitz the previous month, but it was still functioning as a casualty centre for victims of the air raids. Dr Anderson welcomed them at the mortuary.
‘Good morning again, gentlemen,’ he said breezily. ‘I trust you’ve had some breakfast.’
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Cradock.
Ah, so that’s why you were late, thought Jago, but he declined to voice his suspicion. The very mention of food in close proximity to the human remains that lay in the mortuary was enough to make him take kindly to the idea of fasting. If the bombs hadn’t mutilated those bodies, the forensic pathologist soon would – and with an unfathomable air of enthusiasm, if Jago’s experience was anything to go by.
‘Not yet, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’ll get something later. I want to know what this woman died of.’
‘Very well, that’s simple,’ said Anderson. ‘Come in here and I’ll show you.’
They followed him into the post-mortem room. It was cold and forbidding, the very opposite of what a hospital should be, thought Jago – but this was a place for the dead, not the living. The chilling array of saws, chisels and scalpels laid out beside the table gave notice that this was the final destination for those who were now beyond the reach of hope.
‘There you are,’ said Anderson, gesturing towards the body. ‘She died from asphyxiation caused by strangling, as I said at the scene. But you were right to challenge my initial judgement – the presence of a ligature such as that stocking doesn’t necessarily confirm strangulation. I’ve had a look inside now, though, and I’ve found damage to the larynx consistent with strangulation.’
Jago looked down at the dead woman.
‘Poor kid,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair, is it? Here we are fighting a war so people can be safe in their own homes, but nowhere’s safe when there’s someone creeping around ready to kill a young woman like this. And we’re supposed to be the country that’s pulling together.’ He turned back to Anderson. ‘No question of doubt, then?’ he added.
‘No. There are also some tell-tale signs in the lungs. Would you like to see?’
‘I’d rather not, thank you.’
‘Very well. As you may know, they’re marks under the pleural surface that are caused by the rupture of the air cells – very characteristic of violent asphyxia. And then finally we have the tiny spots you may be able to see on her face.’
‘Petechiae?’
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘Too many times. I don’t take as much joy in it as you seem to.’
‘Ah, well. One man’s meat, as they say …’
‘Exactly, although perhaps not the most delicate way of putting it. Where did they train you?’
‘At Guy’s. In fact it was the clinical tutor who recommended I go into pathology – he said I had just the right bedside manner for it.’
‘Very amusing. Now, what about the time of death?’
‘Well, allowing for the initial rise in temperature, as I said, and then the usual decline, I estimate that death occurred sometime between five and seven hours before I took her temperature. In other words between about nine o’clock and eleven o’clock last night. I’ve also taken into account the fact that the body was moved outside and left in the open air on a cold pavement before we got to it. But in any case, a dead body doesn’t cool at a consistent rate. It can vary considerably according to the conditions. Establishing a time of death is inevitably an approximate affair – it could easily vary by half or three-quarters of an hour in either direction.’
‘Good – thank you. Now, have we finished here?’
‘Yes, I think that just about covers it.’
‘And there’s no possibility that she did it herself?’
‘Suicide, you mean? I don’t think so. It’s possible, of course – you can’t strangle yourself with your hands, because you start to lose consciousness and release your grip, but you can if you use a ligature. In this case, though, I think someone killed her.’ He pointed at the woman’s neck with a scalpel. ‘Look at those scratches – they could’ve been made by her as she struggled to pull the stocking away. And there’s also some bruising that I didn’t notice when we looked at her on the street – some on her arms, which would be consistent with her having been grabbed or held, and one on the left side of her face, which is less easy to be specific about.’
‘Could she have got that from falling? The body was found lying on the floor.’
‘Yes, she could have, but it would also be consistent with, say, being slapped. You have to bear in mind that women bruise much more easily than men, so it wouldn’t necessarily take much force to have that effect.’
‘Is it right that dead bodies don’t bruise? It’s just that she was carried out of the house after she’d been f
ound dead. I understand a fireman was involved and it was an emergency, so it may not have been the most delicate of operations.’
‘It’s not strictly correct. It is possible to bruise a dead body, but bruises formed before death are quite different. All I can say is that in my opinion the bruising that I found took place at about the time of death. I can’t be more precise than that.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
‘And the stocking, by the way – whether it’s nylon, as DC Cradock said, or something else, I’ve noticed that it seems to stretch more than normal stockings. Silk or rayon ones, I mean. It would’ve been hard work to kill her – asphyxiation isn’t immediate, and it’s difficult to strangle someone to death if they’re fighting back. So it’s possible the murderer may have needed an accomplice, to help hold the victim down while she was strangled.’
‘Thanks, that’s helpful. Can I take the stocking, if you’ve finished with it?’
‘Of course,’ said Anderson. ‘I didn’t find anything on it to help you.’ He handed the stocking to Jago, who slipped it into a buff envelope and gave it to Cradock.
‘There are one or two other things I’d like to ask you,’ said Jago, ‘but we don’t need to be in here. Could we step outside?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
Anderson led them out of the post-mortem room and into his office.
‘What else can I help you with?’ he asked.
‘Well, it’s just that there’s something about this case that’s bothering me,’ said Jago. ‘It’s the thought of that poor girl fighting for her life – and losing. Ever since we saw her I’ve been thinking about some other cases a few years ago. Do you remember the Soho Strangler?’
‘Vaguely. There was something in the papers a few years ago, wasn’t there? It was probably when I was a junior doctor, working all hours and not having much time to read the news.’
‘Yes, there was. It was a pretty grim tale. Four women were murdered between 1935 and 1937, and as far as I know we’re no closer to working out who did it now than we were then. Most of them were what we used to call ladies of desire, and they were all found dead in their flats. The first one was known as French Fifi, but that was only her working name, of course, and she was strangled with a stocking. The others were all strangled too.’
‘And all in Soho?’ said Cradock.
‘Three of them had flats there, I believe, and the other was somewhere else in the West End, so that’s why the papers called the killer the Soho Strangler, but one of the women was originally from East Ham.’
Cradock’s face registered surprise. ‘Really? A local connection, then. So he might’ve struck a West Ham girl now? You think this Joan Lewis could’ve been on the game?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, a good-looking young woman, living on her own in a little flat, found strangled. It’s possible.’
‘And then there’s the furniture in her bedroom.’
‘Furniture, sir?’
‘Yes. There wasn’t much of it, was there? Nothing fancy. I’ve noticed in the past that some of these girls don’t like to make their place too comfy. They keep things a bit spartan. They say that when they’re bringing men back, if it looks too much like home it’s not good for business. Also, there’s the bed. It’s a double. Not necessarily what you’d expect a single woman to have.’
‘But if it’s a furnished flat, sir, it might just be an old bed the landlord decided to stick in it.’
‘Absolutely, there could be a very good reason for it. But two pillows? I could imagine it being annoying enough for her to have to wash and iron double sheets when she’s sleeping on her own – so why would she want to iron an extra pillowcase for nothing?’
‘An interesting observation,’ said Anderson. ‘A detective’s observation rather than a medical man’s, but a good point, I would think. I did notice she didn’t have any rings on her fingers. Could that be significant?’
‘Possibly,’ said Jago. ‘As a matter of interest, did you find any tattoos when you were examining her?’
‘No, I didn’t, but then I wouldn’t normally expect to find tattoos on a woman. Why would that be of interest?’
‘The absence of them wouldn’t be significant, but if she had some, it could be – it’s a bit of a tradition among prostitutes to have them, especially on their arms and chest.’
‘Well, this body doesn’t have any. So does that mean she was a respectable lady?’
‘Not necessarily, but in any case I don’t think it’s as simple as that. I’ve known a lot of these girls over the years, and it’s not their fault that that’s how they make their living. Some of my superiors would disagree, but I say it’s not our job to divide women into respectable and unrespectable. If someone’s arrested and charged and goes to court, it’s their alleged offence that they’re on trial for, not their character, but all too often that type of woman seems to be convicted just because the court decides she’s “unrespectable”.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Anderson. ‘But you haven’t asked the obvious question.’
‘No, but I was about to. I assume you’ve examined the body for evidence of sexual activity?’
‘Of course, and I think you’ll find it interesting. There was evidence of sexual experience.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Cradock.
‘But,’ Anderson continued, ignoring him, ‘no evidence of recent sexual activity, so if she is a murdered prostitute, she wasn’t working last night.’
‘That doesn’t mean she wasn’t on the game, though, does it?’ said Cradock.
‘No, of course not, but it’s worth noting. And there’s something even more interesting I’ve discovered.’
‘What’s that?’ said Jago, his eyes fixed on Anderson’s face.
‘I checked for any sign that she’d experienced childbirth. There was none, but that was going to change. She was expecting – about twelve weeks pregnant, in my estimation. She would probably have known for some weeks, but she’d reached the stage when it was just beginning to show.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Where to next, guv’nor?’ said Cradock as they left the hospital. ‘Any chance of a bite to eat on the way?’
‘You said you’d already had some breakfast,’ said Jago.
‘Yes, but that was just a quick snack on my way out of the section house, and it was hours ago. These early starts always make me hungry.’
Jago checked his watch in the morning twilight. It was ten to seven. The sun wasn’t up yet, and the blackout still had about a quarter of an hour to run. Besides, the all-clear siren had only sounded about half an hour before, so it was perhaps a little too early in the morning to go knocking on doors.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll nip back to the station and get something in the canteen. But no dawdling.’
Jago himself felt sufficiently recovered from the ordeal of the mortuary to tuck into a breakfast of egg and bacon when they got there, but he was surprised at how much food Cradock managed to pack away.
‘Not expecting to eat again today, are you?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, sir – I mean no, sir. I mean, it’s just that you never know in this job, do you, sir? Got to keep your strength up.’
‘You have to be able to move, too. Supposing you have to chase someone down the street as soon as we get out of here?’
‘Don’t you worry about that, sir. I fancy my chances.’
‘Right, well let’s just hope we don’t have to put your confidence to the test. Now finish that – it’s time to go.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cradock, cramming in a last mouthful. ‘Where to?’
‘I think we need to check that address on Joan Lewis’s identity card – Carnarvon Road’s only about five minutes’ walk from here, so it shouldn’t deplete your energy stores too much.’
Five minutes proved to be an optimistic estimate. They stopped when they saw a house on the way that looked badly damaged by fire, and an elderl
y couple standing on the pavement outside it amidst a jumble of salvaged possessions.
‘Incendiary,’ said the man. One word was enough to tell the whole story, now that incendiary bombs had become familiar nightly arrivals: little silver cylinders crashing through roof tiles in a dazzling white flash of magnesium that turned to yellow as the flames took hold.
‘If I’d been twenty years younger …’ he added disconsolately.
Yes, thought Jago, twenty years younger and he could have scrambled into the loft with a bucket of earth or a stirrup pump and saved the day. Another twenty years and he might have been up in the sky shooting the bomber down before it could do its deadly work. These were not good days to be old. The woman said the local council was sending a van to collect their remaining things and put them in storage, and she asked if they could help stack them neatly so they wouldn’t block the pavement. The sort of people you’d want for neighbours, thought Jago, as he and Cradock shifted the couple’s pathetic belongings into some sort of orderly pile.
It was all done in minutes, and by just after eight they were knocking on the door of 166 Carnarvon Road.
The house was large, solid and Victorian, with a patch of garden in front of it and stone steps up to the front door. Four or five bedrooms, if not more, Jago guessed, and worth a bob or two. He rapped the substantial brass knocker on its plate and heard the sound echo down what was presumably a spacious hallway. He hoped he wasn’t waking anyone. The door opened, and he realised his concern was groundless. The woman standing before him had clearly not just got out of bed, nor did she look about to busy herself with housework.
The steps were contrived to position callers at a lower level than whoever opened the door, so Jago and Cradock both found themselves looking up at her. She was dressed in a navy blue fitted suit that didn’t look cheap, with dark grey woollen stockings and black laced shoes. If asked to estimate her age, Jago would have guessed mid-fifties.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago of West Ham CID, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of the morning.’