by Mike Hollow
‘That’s if the people who blew the safe were professionals. It’s certainly dangerous work for amateurs, but if someone told them what to do they might manage it. They’d have had to get hold of the explosives, too, of course.’
‘Yes, but that can’t be difficult in a war. There must be hundreds of factories making munitions now.’
‘On the contrary, that’s just it. The idea of fifth column types or saboteurs getting hold of explosives must frighten the life out of the government, so those places are all guarded. And in any case, munitions use TNT, but this was Polar Ammon Gelignite. That’s an industrial explosive, so it’s more likely to have come from a mine or quarry, and there’s nowhere like that in this area.’
‘No obvious explanation, then.’
‘No. And what did you make of Conway, the cinema manager?’
‘He’s a pompous little – sorry sir, I mean he certainly fancies himself. Too cocky by half, if you ask me.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he obviously likes being the boss, and he reckons he’s quite a success story because he’s got the job so young. Likes chucking his weight about a bit though, doesn’t he?’
‘Perhaps he thinks that’s what seniority’s all about.’
‘He seemed to take it all in his stride – the break-in and the theft of all that money. I got the impression he was just as concerned about his precious little envelope as he was about the company losing a weekend’s takings.’
‘Yes. Just some personal papers, he said. I wonder what those were, and what made them so important he had to put them in the safe?’
‘They could be something suspicious, you mean?’
‘I don’t know – it’s just curious. But he’s not the kind of character I’d buy a second-hand car from, if you know what I mean. It’s that smooth manner of his, I think. He definitely strikes me as a man with an eye to the main chance.’
‘Too smart for his own good, if you ask me.’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Jago. ‘He should go far.’
CHAPTER TEN
If the bomb had fallen a mere two or three yards farther down the street the National Provincial Bank would have been flattened, but in the randomness of aerial bombing it had been spared, while the adjacent furnishings store had been blasted to ruins. On the outside the bank’s stone-clad walls still exuded their customary air of security and permanence, but when Jago and Cradock went inside they found a scene of quiet but urgent industry, with staff endeavouring to maintain normal business while others swept up dust and other debris blown in through the shattered windows. A clerk took them to the manager, secluded in his office at the back of the bank.
‘I realise this is not a good day to deprive you of a member of staff, even for ten minutes, but I need to speak to Miss Carol Hurst in connection with our enquiries,’ said Jago once they had been introduced.
‘Of course. Miss Hurst – one of our shorthand typists,’ said the manager, Harold Pemberton. He was a studious-looking man in his fifties, crisply turned out in the habitual black jacket and striped trousers to which his occupation still clung. To Jago this was quaint, since the professional world in general seemed to have defected to lounge suits. But he assumed it reflected the conservative nature of banking: an air of sober respectability was everything. He thought the man would be mortified to know there was what looked like a smudge of ash on his wing collar.
‘As you can see,’ Pemberton continued, ‘we’ve had a slight disruption to our business today, but we must be thankful we’re still here. We’re doing our very best to maintain our normal service, and so far I think we’re succeeding. So you want to speak to Miss Hurst. I do hope she isn’t in any trouble.’ He said this with an amused grin, as if the idea of one of his staff being in trouble was so improbable as to be laughable.
‘No, she’s not in trouble, but we think she may be able to help us.’
‘I’ll send for her, then. The office next to this one is empty today, so you can use that if you wish.’
‘That will be perfect, thank you.’
When Carol Hurst arrived she presented quite a contrast to her staid manager. She was young, in her early twenties to Jago’s eye, and despite her demure dress – he assumed the bank had rules about that sort of thing – she seemed bursting with life. She joined Jago and Cradock in the empty office, took a seat, and straightened her skirt in a somewhat exaggerated manner. Jago broke the news of Joan’s death to her, and she seemed genuinely upset.
‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ he said, ‘but we understand you and Joan were friends. Is that the case?’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Carol. ‘I got to know her about four years ago. We were both in the Women’s League of Health and Beauty. We used to like that kind of thing in those days – fresh air, exercise, keeping fit. We were supposed to be the flower of English womanhood, but actually, looking back now I think we were just a bunch of conceited young women prancing round in baggy satin knickers and waving our arms about thinking we were changing the world. I think that’s how she met her husband – he was a fresh air type at the time, liked camping and all that. But I think the charm wore off for him too. Mind you, I suppose being a part-time soldier and going on training camps in the summer means a bit of outdoor life, so maybe he hadn’t given it up completely. Not like her. I reckon the closest she’s got to that sort of thing in the last couple of years is watching cowboy films at work.’
‘So you know her husband?’
‘Richard? Yes. I was her bridesmaid – me and her sister Beryl. The wedding was in January of last year, so they only had a year and a bit together before he was sent off to France. You know he’s in the Territorial Army, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I do. What else can you tell me about him?’
‘Well, no one knows where he is at the moment – it’s a bit of a mystery. Joan told me someone from the same battalion as Richard came to see her when he got back to England. He said they’d been sent over there to defend Calais, but they’d run into a spot of trouble. Rather serious trouble, in fact – he said most of the battalion were killed or captured, and Richard had gone missing. It must’ve been terrible news for Joan, and she was never a very strong person. I think she went to pieces a bit, but she tried to cover that up. I did my best to comfort her – Richard’s only missing, after all, not killed, and we’re all hoping there’ll be some good news soon.’
She paused, as though taking in the significance of what she’d just said, then looked at Jago with a pained expression.
‘That’ll be too late for her, though, won’t it?’
Jago nodded sympathetically. ‘I understand Richard volunteered for the Territorials before the war started,’ he said.
‘Yes, in April of last year, I think. He said he joined up because of Hitler occupying Czechoslovakia – he said that was the last straw. But I think there was more to it than that. He had a boring job, and maybe joining the Territorials sounded like a bit of adventure. I expect his mother’s told you all about him volunteering, though.’
‘We have spoken to Mrs Lewis, yes. Do you know her?’
‘What – Audrey? Yes, I’ve met her a few times, but I don’t know her well. She’s done nothing but worry about Richard since he went to France – but then she’s always been the same, from what I’ve heard. What you might call a possessive mother, a bit overbearing at times.’
‘She seemed confident that he’s still alive.’
‘Oh, yes. But I think that’s mainly because her friend Madame Zara says so.’
‘Madame Zara?’
‘Yes. She’s a spiritualist – a medium. I believe Audrey’s consulted her about her late husband, Richard’s dad, but I don’t know why. Audrey’s a bit of a crackpot, if you ask me.’
Jago wondered whether she spoke this freely about all her acquaintances and how she might later describe himself to her friends.
‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘did Joan have any men friends?’
&
nbsp; She smiled and gave him a sly look. ‘That’s a bit of a naughty question, isn’t it? I mean, she was a married woman.’
‘It’s a question I have to ask in a case like this.’
‘Well, I can’t give you any names, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Do you mean you have some names but can’t tell me, or that you don’t know of anyone?’
‘I don’t know of anyone, of course. What kind of girl do you think she was? Mind you, she wasn’t what I’d call shy. She could be a flirt – you know, looking all coy talking to the boys, but then giving the eyelashes a bit of a flutter if she felt like it.’
‘Do you know if it ever went further than flirting?’
‘Well, that I couldn’t say, Inspector. I think she was just a bit tired of life. I mean, you know – husband’s gone overseas to fight and hasn’t come back, and for all she knows maybe he never will, and she’s cooped up with a mother-in-law who’d barely give her the time of day, in what’s probably a dead-end job. Not much chance of a social life, either, with the shifts she worked at the cinema. I think she was looking for a bit of excitement, a thrill – but not for something serious.’
‘How was she financially?’
‘She told me she earned twenty-seven and six a week at the cinema. Not a king’s ransom, is it? I get two pounds at the bank. But I think she got another eighteen bob or something family allowance for her husband being a private in the army. So what’s that altogether? Two pounds five and six a week. Still not a lot when you’re paying rent.’
‘I see. Now, forgive me for asking, but at times like this some women have to do things they wouldn’t normally consider doing to earn enough money to live.’
Carol gave a short, tinkling laugh. ‘Oh, aren’t you sweet? Don’t worry, I know what you mean.’
‘Do you know whether this might’ve applied to Joan?’
‘If it did, it would’ve been her own business, and I don’t think she’d have broadcast the news to all and sundry. I wouldn’t have judged her if she’d been tempted, but the fact is I don’t know – she never said, and I never saw.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Look, Inspector, some men think there are perfect women out there – always faithful to their husband in thought and deed, devote their life to his happiness and welfare, never flirt, never even smoke or drink, but make allowances for everything he does. That’s what they think, but I doubt whether they’ve ever met one in real life. I’ve already told you she was a flirt, so that’s one bad mark against her, and she might’ve failed on some of those other points. I don’t know everything about her life, but she was a good friend to me when I needed one, and that’s all that matters to me.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jago walked into West Ham police station, followed by Cradock, who was still carrying the suitcase, and raised a hand in mock salute to Station Sergeant Frank Tompkins on the front desk.
‘Afternoon, Frank,’ he said. ‘Everything under control as usual, I assume?’
‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Tompkins. ‘All shipshape and Bristol fashion, if I say so myself. Although what Mr Soper’s going to say about you two turning up for duty on a Monday morning at half past three in the afternoon I don’t know.’
‘Well, you know what it’s like, Frank – it can be difficult getting out of bed when you’re old. Heaven knows what I’ll be like when I’m as old as you.’
‘Don’t remind me. But I’ve got one advantage over you – I’ve got a missus to kick me out of bed. Don’t need an alarm clock – it works like a charm. You should think about getting one yourself, sir. A missus, I mean, not an alarm clock. Oh, and that reminds me, how are you getting on with that nice young—’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Frank,’ Jago interrupted. ‘But I didn’t need either this morning – I got a personal early morning call from one of your men, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Well, yes, a little dicky bird did tell me there’d been an unfortunate incident over in Carpenters Road, and I thought that might’ve detained you.’
‘While you were still tucked up in bed with your missus, no doubt. Did that little bird tell you what time DC Cradock and I started work today?’ He glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘Twelve hours ago almost to the minute – for me, at least. A little later for him.’
Cradock was about to spring to his own defence, but thought better of it.
‘Sorry,’ said Tompkins. ‘My mistake.’
‘You don’t make mistakes, Frank, you’re too long in the tooth to get anything wrong. You must be the longest-serving officer on the division.’
‘No need to rub it in. I used to hate being retired, but now I’m back serving His Majesty again I miss it more every day.’
Tompkins peered down his nose at Cradock.
‘Anyway, you two going off on holiday?’ he said. ‘I’ve heard Eastbourne’s very nice at this time of year if you don’t mind the barbed wire on the beach. Only one suitcase, though?’
‘Ah, that,’ Jago replied. ‘Give it here, Peter.’
Cradock handed him the suitcase, and Jago set it down on the desk in front of Tompkins. He opened it so the sergeant could see the contents.
‘What do you make of these, Frank?’
‘Well, let’s have a look.’ Tompkins took out the garments and turned them over in his hands. ‘Hmm, green shirt, green hood, a natty pair of green shorts. No accounting for taste, is there? My guess is you’re on your way to the theatre and you’re going to be appearing in a pantomime. Robin Hood, is it? Can I be one of your merry men? You’ll need a Maid Marian too, won’t you – got anyone in mind?’
‘If I didn’t know you better, Sergeant, I’d say there was a hint of impertinence in that remark, but I’m sure I’m mistaken.’
‘Oh, absolutely, sir,’ said Tompkins with a broad grin. ‘And do give her my best wishes when you next see her, sir.’
‘Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. Now, about these clothes. I’m trying to work out what they are. There’s a badge on the tunic that looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it. You’ve seen everything in your time, Frank, and your memory’s better than mine, so I thought you’d be able to put your finger on it.’
Tompkins took a closer look at the badge.
‘Yes, now I look at it again it rings a bit of a bell with me too. A green tree, a red shape like smoke from a campfire and a blue thing like a letter K. I remember seeing this back in the twenties, I think. I’ve an idea it was something to do with those blokes who wear shirts.’
‘That narrows it down to the entire male population.’
‘No, I mean the ones who wear coloured shirts and like to strut about in the street. You know – you’ve got Hitler with his Brownshirts, and Mussolini with his Blackshirts, and then we had Mosley and his mob in black shirts too, and the Irish with their Blueshirts. They wear them like a uniform. And then on top of all that we had Greenshirts. I can’t say I know exactly what the Greenshirts were all about – from what I recall it was a bit complicated. But this lot, with this badge, I think they were something to do with them.’
Tompkins held the tunic up and checked its length. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s meant to be for a man or a woman. It’s about the right size for a dress for a woman, or it could be a sort of tunic for a small man.’
‘And the shorts go with it?’
‘Looks like it, sir. In that case I’d say it was all made for a small man or a boy. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I would. Well, thanks, Frank, you’ve been very helpful. It’s connected in some way with the murder victim, you see. But you’re right, it definitely does have a bit of a theatrical look about it. More a costume than a uniform.’
‘Yes, sir. Suitable for pantomime, like a lot of what goes on inside this nick. All it needs now is a little bow and arrow to go with it. And speaking of Robin Hood and his merry men, that reminds me. The Sheriff of Nottingham would like a word with you.’
He nodded his head towards the corridor leading to Divisional Detective Inspector Soper’s office, a conspiratorial look on his face. ‘Wants to know how you’re getting on with the unfortunate strangled lady, I believe.’
DDI Eric Soper presided over all CID operations on K Division of the Metropolitan Police, and therefore presided over Jago. The latter didn’t know how old the DDI was, but reckoned he must surely be at retirement age by now. The powers that be had presumably kept him on because of the current shortage of men, and so Jago accepted the situation as just one more troublesome variety of collateral damage to be put up with for the duration. He braced himself and knocked on the door.
‘Come,’ said a voice from within.
He opened the door and went in. Soper was sitting at a heavy old mahogany kneehole desk. He looked up and stubbed out the last finger’s width of his cigarette into an ashtray, then blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
‘Take a seat, John,’ he said, motioning to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Close up, Jago noticed how battered the edge of the desk was – it looked as if it must have been brought down from the old police station on the corner of Langthorne Street when the present one was built at the end of the last century. He wondered which was older, the desk or its current occupant.
‘Making progress with that Carpenters Road case?’ said Soper, glancing at his watch.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jago. ‘Early days yet, but we’ve identified the victim and established one or two possible lines of enquiry.’
‘Strangled with a stocking, I hear. Gruesome business, by the sound of it. The work of a maniac?’
‘At this stage I couldn’t say, sir. But you remember the Soho Strangler?’
‘What? You don’t mean to say it’s another one of those? That’s the last thing we want on our doorstep. This woman was a prostitute, then?’
‘No, sir, we don’t know, and I’m not jumping to any conclusions. It’s just a bit reminiscent of those very unpleasant murders.’