by Mike Hollow
‘I could see damage to some of the other blocks too as I came over the bridge.’
‘Yes, they said they’ve had other bombs since then that’ve killed more nurses and doctors, and they took me for a look around. The hospital’s been turned into a casualty clearing station, so they have to keep open day and night to look after people in the neighbourhood who’ve been injured in the raids. Everything’s in the basement now – the staff live and sleep down there. They’ve got wards there, even an operating theatre, and they have to do all their sterilising on primus stoves, so it’s pretty tough for them. One thing made me smile, though.’
‘Yes? What was that?’
‘You remember the time you showed me that statue outside the House of Lords that survived a bomb? One of your kings?’
‘Yes. Richard the Lionheart. He was still on his horse, but his sword was bent.’
‘That’s the one. Well, I was looking around the yard outside that smashed-up nurses’ home and I noticed a statue. It was another one of your kings, King Edward the something, from way back, and it was the only thing still standing. It made me think your kings must be built to last – with the possible exception of your most recent King Edward, of course. The eighth, I mean.’
‘Let’s not talk about him.’
‘I know. Another Englishman with a great career ahead of him until it was all ruined by an American woman?’
Jago smiled at her. ‘No comment,’ he said. ‘So anyway, you think you’ve got enough information to put your readers in the picture?’
‘I think so. I just wanted to make one simple point – that when you drop bombs on a city from the sky, you’re as likely to hit a hospital as you are an aircraft factory. In a modern war, no one’s out of range. I notice, of course, that your own newspapers here always say the RAF bombers only hit what they call “selected military targets”, but I don’t think anyone seriously believes that, do they?’
‘I think people who read newspapers believe what they want to believe.’
Jago stood up. ‘We get off at the next stop. Let’s go.’
The tram halted on the western side of the river. They descended the narrow, winding staircase, Dorothy first, and as they stepped down onto the road she continued the conversation.
‘And what do you think people here want to believe?’
‘That’s simple, isn’t it? They want to believe this war’s worth fighting, that we’re in the right, and that we’ll win. The trouble is, I expect a lot of Germans probably believe the same about themselves, and some of them might be looking at a bombed hospital of their own and thinking it right now.’
‘No one can accuse you of being jingoistic, can they?’
‘By jingo, no,’ said Jago with a laugh. ‘Come along, let’s have a drink. I know a nice little place just up the road.’
They headed away from the river, up Bridge Street, with the Palace of Westminster on their left.
‘Would you mind if we took a small detour for a moment first?’ he said. ‘We’ve got about twenty minutes before blackout time, and there’s a place here that’s important to me.’
‘Of course, yes. What is it?’
‘The Cenotaph. I expect you’ve already seen it, and it may sound silly, but I was thinking recently that I’d just like to bring you to it sometime. I can’t really explain why. Perhaps it’s a bit like taking you to meet my family, except I haven’t got one – more like meeting part of my past, I suppose.’
‘Let’s go, then.’
The cold wind he’d felt on Westminster Bridge blew into their faces as they walked up the wide avenue of Parliament Street to the white Portland stone war memorial. Its smooth surface was now pitted by the blast of a bomb that had hit the Colonial Office on the corner of Downing Street since his last visit.
‘Maybe it’s just me being sentimental,’ said Jago, ‘but sometimes if I’m in the area I like to come here and look at this.’
‘To remember the Great War? I don’t think that’s sentimental – I think it’s honourable. You’re showing respect for your comrades. I can understand why that’s important for you.’
‘Can you? I appreciate that. There’s no names on it, of course, but when I’m here I remember the men I knew – the ones who didn’t come back. That’s all, really. They’re gone, and there’s nothing to remember them by except monuments like this. I know some of them had families who might still mourn them, but I’m thinking of all the ones who died before they could marry or have children. Who’ll remember them when the rest of us have gone? There were so many of them.’
‘Yes, it’s unbearably sad – all those young lives cut short. I haven’t seen a lot of England yet, but it seems like every town and village has some kind of memorial with the names of their men who died engraved on it. I guess at least that means their names live on.’
‘Yes. And have you heard of the thankful villages?’
Dorothy shook her head.
‘That’s what they call the English villages where every man returned alive from the war. I once heard that someone had worked out there were just thirty-two of them in the whole country. So almost every village lost someone.’
‘But you can’t live in the past, John. You know that, don’t you? Life has to go on.’
‘It does, yes. And it did, for me – I’ve had another twenty-odd years that those men didn’t have. It’s just that I feel I can never leave them behind or forget them. It would be like a betrayal.’
‘It sounds as though you feel guilty for surviving.’
Jago fell silent as he reflected on her words.
‘Yes,’ he replied slowly, ‘I think that’s it. I do feel a kind of guilt because I’m still here and they’re not. I see young people being happy and I think I can’t be like that, I don’t deserve it, I’d be denying what happened to my friends.’
‘Don’t you think they’d want you to be happy?’
‘Maybe, but that’s not how it seems to work inside me. Look, I hope you don’t mind me talking like this – it’s a bit gloomy, I know, but it’s important to me because it’s what makes me who I am. And there’s a whole generation of us walking the streets who must feel the same way.’
Dorothy flashed him a warm smile. ‘So what would you do if you met one of those lost and forgotten men now?’
‘I don’t know. You tell me.’
‘I think you’d take him for a drink.’
‘I get it,’ said Jago, smiling back at her. ‘You’re right. OK, let’s go to that little place I mentioned.’
Five minutes later they were standing outside a pub on the corner of Bridge Street and Cannon Row. Through an open window they could hear the clamour of animated conversation.
‘Here it is,’ said Jago. ‘I told you it wasn’t far.’
He opened the door for Dorothy and they went in. The bar was small, but he found them somewhere to sit and went off to buy drinks.
‘I think you’ll like it,’ he said on his return, handing a glass to Dorothy. ‘It’s got character.’
‘It has,’ she replied, gazing round the bar. ‘I hope this won’t disappoint you, but actually I already know this place. I’ve been here before – some of my newspaper colleagues brought me. They say it’s very popular with journalists – in fact I’d say the place is probably full of hacks. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a cosy old joint, and I do like it. Now, tell me how your case is going. You said on the phone that it’s a murder, right?’
‘Yes, it’s a poor young woman who was found strangled in her flat. You’ll understand that I can’t tell you much about it, and I certainly don’t want you writing about it in that Boston Post of yours.’
‘Don’t worry. I’d have to get past your censors first, and I don’t think they’d allow me to file any copy to the States that mentions things your own press isn’t allowed to say about a case. Just tell me what you feel you can.’
‘Well, in some ways it’s what you might call a fairly conventional murder, but th
ere’s one thing that’s worrying me. There seem to be similarities with some other crimes that were committed in the mid thirties, and pretty unpleasant they were too. Four women were murdered in their flats, most of them prostitutes, and all strangled – the first one with a silk stocking. The papers called the murderer the Soho Strangler, and it was big news.’
‘Yes, I remember hearing about it. I’m sure it was reported in the US press sometime back then. So was this woman a prostitute too?’
‘We’re not sure. There are indications that she might’ve been, but no proof, so we’re keeping an open mind. The thing is, there’s one point I’d like to confirm, and you’re the person most likely to be able to help me.’
‘Well, I’m surprised to hear that, but I’ll help if I can.’
Jago reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a buff envelope.
‘This is the stocking that was used,’ he said, opening the envelope and pulling out a few inches of the item it held. ‘I won’t take it out, otherwise someone here might think I’m a black-market trader.’
‘And call the police?’
‘Exactly. I just wondered – can you tell me what it’s made of?’
Dorothy took the material between her forefinger and thumb, and rubbed it gently.
‘Yes, I can – it’s nylon. They’re the latest thing.’
‘That’s what we thought – or rather, what Cradock thought. Apparently you can’t buy them in Britain, so neither of us has ever seen one. I’ve heard of nylon bristles on a toothbrush, but I’ve never seen it in this form. How’s it made?’
‘They call it the new miracle material – at least, I guess that’s what the people who are trying to sell it call it. It was invented in the States last year, and they say it’s made from coal. Mind you, that sounds like someone’s simplified the chemistry involved – I don’t suppose the DuPont Corporation wants the recipe to get out. Stockings like this only went on sale back home at the beginning of the year.’
‘It’ll be a long time before we see them in the shops here, then. It said in the paper today that people won’t even be able to buy silk stockings from the end of next month. Apparently the government’s going to stop the shops selling them, because we need all the silk we can get for barrage balloons and parachutes.’
‘That’s why women are starting to wear slacks,’ said Dorothy. ‘A lot of men seem to think that’s going against the natural order of things, but British girls I’ve talked to say if they can’t buy stockings they’re going to wear slacks instead, and the men will have to like it or lump it.’
‘So the question is, how did our murderer get his hands on a nylon stocking?’
‘Only on the black market, I guess.’
‘Well, the war seems to be doing wonders for the black market – it’s thriving on all the shortages. But look, let’s talk about something else. I’m determined not to go on about work all the time, but I was sure you’d know a nylon stocking if you saw one.’
‘I don’t mind you talking about your work. It’s interesting.’
‘Yes, but I told you I’d like to spend time with you, and I meant just for its own sake, not because work demands it. And what’ve I done? I’ve taken up your time asking you to identify evidence.’
‘And I have to be going pretty soon. I have work of my own to do this evening.’
‘Writing about everyday life in a London hospital?’
‘Correct. But I’ll tell you what I’d like to do. Let’s eat together.’
‘Certainly. Lunch tomorrow?’
‘No, I’m going to be very busy tomorrow with meetings and writing. How about we meet up the day after tomorrow, Wednesday, for breakfast?’
‘Breakfast? Where would you like to go?’
‘Well, I have to say it’s been very nice of you to introduce me to so many of your, er, exotic English eating places, but I like seeing you on your home ground. Let’s go to Rita’s place. What time does she open?’
‘Seven o’clock, usually. Could you manage half past seven?’
‘That would suit me fine.’
‘OK, it’s a deal. I’ll tell Cradock I’ll be in a little late.’
‘No, bring him along.’
‘Really?’
‘Sure. He’s sweet – and besides, I want to ask him how his love life’s going.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Good morning, Peter,’ said Jago with a glance at the clock as Cradock entered the CID office on Tuesday morning. ‘I trust you slept well.’
‘Morning, guv’nor. Better than yesterday, thank you. I could’ve done without that murder – nearly put me off my breakfast.’
‘Not quite, though, eh? In fact I was under the impression that you’d had two breakfasts yesterday.’
‘Can’t work on an empty stomach, can we, sir?’
‘No – and speaking of work, which I believe is what you’re here for, have you spoken to Tom Gracewell yet? I want to know whether he can tell us anything about what kind of life Joan Lewis lived.’
‘Not yet, sir. I thought I’d catch him on my way in this morning, but it turns out he’s been given a day’s compassionate leave – his mother’s been bombed out of her house in Harwich and she’s in hospital. And you’ll never guess who did the bombing. I couldn’t believe it – they said it was the Italian air force.’
‘Well, I suppose they had to join in eventually – do their bit, as it were.’
‘Yes, but it’s a long way from Rome to Essex, isn’t it?’
‘It is, Peter, but just because they’re the Italian air force it doesn’t necessarily mean they have to take off in Italy. Hitler’s conveniently defeated France for them, so now they’re probably based just over the Channel somewhere, if only to save petrol.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Cradock, regretting having provided what had seemed to him an interesting detail.
‘Anyway, give my best wishes to Gracewell and his mother when you see him. When’s he due back?’
‘Tomorrow morning, sir. He’s on early turn, so I’ll try to catch him when he comes off duty at two.’
‘No. I’d like you to see him before he starts – see if you can catch him at half past five, before they parade for duty.’ He saw Cradock’s face sink. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You must’ve done plenty of early starts in your time, when you were in uniform, surely.’
‘Yes, sir, but then we knocked off at two in the afternoon. I can’t see us doing that tomorrow. Can you?’
‘Definitely not, but you’re a young man and fighting fit. And if you need consolation, turn up at Rita’s by half past seven and I’ll treat you to breakfast.’
Cradock’s face brightened visibly. ‘Thanks, guv’nor.’
‘You’re welcome. Now, no word yet on Joan’s fingerprints, I suppose?’
‘No. The Yard said they had a lot of record cards to check but they’d let us know as soon as possible.’
Cradock pulled a chair out behind the desk across the office and sat down.
‘Very well,’ said Jago. ‘But don’t get yourself too comfortable – I want to have a word with Sylvia Parks before she goes off duty.’
The ARP post was in the basement of a derelict house that appeared to be otherwise uninhabited. Jago went down the outside steps at the front, followed by Cradock, and knocked on the half-open door. There was no answer, so he pushed it and peered in. The sole occupant, as far as he could see, was an exhausted-looking middle-aged woman in a dirty coat sitting at a battered table, writing something on a sheet of paper. She glanced up to see who it was, then returned to her writing.
‘Mrs Parks?’ he enquired. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ she sighed. ‘You’re from the town hall and you need to inspect our milk bills – or is it to check we’re using the right forms for our incident reports? Well, you can do what you like, but don’t expect any help from me – I’ve been up all night and now I’m going home.’
‘We’re the police, actually – West Ham CID. I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is Detective Constable Cradock. We’re making enquiries in connection with the body you found at 28 Carpenters Road yesterday morning.’
She put her pen down on the table and stood up.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I just assumed you were more of those fusspots from the council. They don’t seem to actually do anything except go around inspecting what other people are doing. You’d better come in. How can I help you?’
The two men stepped into the room.
‘We were told by one of our officers at the scene yesterday morning that you’d gone,’ said Jago, ‘and we were hoping you’d return so we could speak to you, but you didn’t. I wonder if you could tell me why that was.’
‘Certainly. The constable said you’d want to speak to me but he didn’t tell me to come back, and I couldn’t hang around waiting for you because I had a report to send in from the post. Then when I eventually got here through all the usual chaos I discovered the phone was dead, so I had to take it all the way to the next post. By the time I’d done that I had to go to work.’
‘I see. You’re not a full-time warden, then?’
‘No, I do two or three nights a week as a volunteer. It’s hard, but we take it in turns to grab a bit of sleep whenever we can between air raids. You get to the point where sleep’s the thing you need most in the world – even more than food. Only trouble is, sometimes you’re so tired you can’t sleep – either that or the things you’ve seen in the raids make it impossible to sleep.’
Her face was streaked with grime from the night’s work, but Jago could still see the signs of strain.
‘Where do you work?’ he asked.
‘At the Co-op – the London Co-operative Society, I suppose I should say. At the head office in Maryland Street. I’m a comptometer operator – it’s skilled work, and I get paid more than I would as a full-time warden, so I can’t afford to give it up. Besides, I need to be sure I’ve got a job when all this ends. I’m a widow.’