by Mike Hollow
‘It’s not nonsense,’ she said timidly. ‘I find it very comforting, especially these days. There was an astrologist in the paper, an American lady.’ She turned to Dorothy as if looking for sympathy and support. ‘One of yours. Last year she predicted the war was going to start in the autumn, and it did. And she said Germany’s going to lose, and Hitler’s going to fall in 1943.’
‘The papers are hardly likely to report an astrologist predicting that we’ll lose the war, are they?’ Jago retorted, unable to disguise the tone of impatience in his voice. ‘Besides, what is the future? It doesn’t exist, does it? So how can anyone predict something that doesn’t exist? All we know is the present, and what we might remember of the past. That’s all the truth there is, and all the rest is either made up or unknowable.’
‘I don’t know about that, Mr Jago,’ said Rita. ‘I don’t think I’m clever enough to answer a question like that. All I know is we’re at war again, and that means nothing but sadness and grief. I just want it to finish, and if someone says it’s going to end, even if it’s not till 1943, that gives me hope.’
Jago thought of his conversation two days earlier with Audrey Lewis, a mother clinging to the hope that her son missing in France had escaped or at worst had been captured – anything rather than killed. A hope that both sustained and consumed her.
‘I’m sorry, Rita,’ he said. ‘I was wrong to speak like that. I do understand how you feel.’
‘That’s all right, Mr Jago,’ she said. ‘I know you mean well.’
There was an awkward silence, and Dorothy judged it was time to rescue both Rita and Jago from the difficult territory into which their conversation had strayed.
‘You’re right, Rita,’ she said soothingly. ‘We all need a little hope in our lives. They say hope’s like a star – you can’t see it when the sun’s shining, only when everything around you is dark.’ She paused, and gave Rita a warm smile. ‘So what do you hope for, Rita?’
‘That’s easy,’ said Rita, her face brightening a little. ‘An end to this blasted war, and a good husband for Emily.’ She looked at Jago and began to rub the table slowly with her cloth. ‘Trouble is,’ she continued, ‘when you’ve got hope, the stronger it gets, the more it hurts when you don’t get what you hope for. That’s when you find out hope and grief come very close together. It’s like it was with my Walter – I hoped and hoped he’d come back from the war, but he never did. “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” That’s what they say, isn’t it? Well I can tell you, that’s the truest thing I ever heard in my life.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jago and Cradock walked back from Rita’s cafe with Dorothy until they reached the police station, where she said goodbye to them and continued on alone to catch the train back into the centre of London. Jago knew it might be embarrassing to wait and watch until she was out of sight rather than go straight into the station with Cradock, but there was a stronger fear in his mind too – a common one these days. The fear that at any moment, any day, a bomb could change a casual goodbye to a final and irreversible parting. So he stayed where he was, standing on the pavement and watching her back as she made her way up the street, despite the fact that Cradock waited beside him. He hoped she might turn round, and she did. They exchanged a brief wave, and Cradock sportingly waved too. Then she was gone.
‘Right, Peter, let’s get down to work,’ said Jago briskly as they returned to the CID office. ‘Any news on those fingerprints?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cradock replied, mustering his most formal tone to reassure Jago that his waving to Dorothy would be treated as confidential. ‘We’ve got a print confirmed for Evans, the fireman, on the back door handle, but nowhere else. We haven’t found any for the ARP warden, Mrs Parks, but she said she was wearing gloves, so that’s not surprising. By the time the two of them had been all over the back door handle there was nothing else identifiable left, and we’re probably lucky that Evans’s print survived.’
‘So there’s no other prints we can make use of?’
‘That’s right, sir. Oh, and by the way, sir, did you find out anything useful about those other cases – the Soho ones?’
‘Yes, I spoke to Detective Superintendent Oates on C Division, where some of them happened. He said the first victim, Josephine Martin, who was known as French Fifi, was strangled with a silk stocking. The second one was strangled with a silk scarf, the third with a piece of wire, and the fourth with some blind cord. That’s what made the detectives investigating think it was all the work of one man, but they haven’t found a single clue to link them. What’s more, they’d had a different suspect in each case, and one of them was actually in prison when another of the women was murdered, which obviously put him in the clear. They’ve come to the conclusion that even though most of the victims were prostitutes, it wasn’t one man committing all the murders. In fact they think there was probably a different killer in each case, and the murders were actually crimes of imitation. The superintendent said it was possible, of course, that one of them had also been involved in our case, but he reckoned we might as well assume that our killer is a different person altogether.’
‘So it could be anyone?’
‘That’s right. It could be anyone.’
‘But still the kind of person who’s likely to murder a prostitute?’
‘As I said, it could be anyone.’
Cradock sat silent for a moment, lost in thought.
‘I’ve been thinking, sir,’ he said at last.
‘Well done, Peter. About what?’
‘About Bert Wilson, and about his jobs and all that. What he said yesterday about working for Charlie Lewis for two years without ever seeing Richard, who was his old mate. He wriggled out of it when you challenged him, with that business about not being in the office and Charlie not wanting him to talk to Richard, but I’m not convinced he was telling us the truth. And he must’ve known going round collecting debts for a man like Lewis was a pretty shady business. Supposing he’s not the upright citizen he’d like us to think he is? If he’s not, I could easily see him using his keys to help those safe-breakers get into the cinema.’
‘That’s possible, but you’re not suggesting he could be involved in the murder, are you?’
‘I don’t know, sir. What if Joan found out he was going to let those thieves in and threatened to tell Conway or the police? He might’ve wanted to silence her. If Joan was having some kind of affair with Conway, and Wilson knew it, he’d be scared that she’d tell Conway everything she knew.’
‘But we don’t have any evidence that she knew anything about the safe job.’
‘That’s true. But wait … supposing there was something going on between Joan and Wilson? He’s pretty soft on her, isn’t he? And he got quite prickly when you asked him how close he was to her. Maybe he was in love with her, but she refused to be unfaithful to her husband, so he killed her in a jealous rage.’
‘That sounds a bit like a movie script. But in any case, did he have an opportunity to murder Joan? He was at the cinema all night, fire watching.’
‘Yes, but you heard what that AFS bloke Evans said. He reckoned some of those fire watchers aren’t above sloping off for a rest or a sleep, so why not slope off for a jealous murder?’
‘It’s possible, as long as he was back in time to be jumped on by a pair of safe-breakers. But his economic argument about risking eighteen months’ hard labour for a twenty-pound cut was quite persuasive, wasn’t it?’
‘He wouldn’t be the first crook to take on odds like that – especially if he thought he could get away with it. And Wilson was the only person with a lawful reason to be on the premises that night, wasn’t he? Perfect cover.’
‘Possibly. We’ll see. Now, anything else to report before we go out?’
‘Yes, sir. I checked up on those moneylending things, like you said – the certificate of good character and the excise licence. No record of either for Charlie Lewis, so I reckon his business was very
private, like Bert Wilson said. He must’ve been an interesting character.’
‘Yes, Audrey may claim he left her with no financial worries, but I doubt his clients would say the same. I’ve come across his sort before – they buy up bad debts for two-and-six in the pound, then use their powers of persuasion to get the debtors to pay them back the full pound on everything they owe.’
‘And by powers of persuasion you mean Bert Wilson?’
‘Yes. Not quite the gentle giant we might’ve taken him for after all.’
‘A nasty business.’
‘Indeed it is, and it sounds like Charlie Lewis was a nasty character. But he’s somewhere we can’t get hold of him now. We need to focus on the living.’
‘What’s next, then, guv’nor?’
‘I think it’s time we took a little stroll round to Cross Street to see whether we can catch young Beryl Hayes at home before she goes to work.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
At Beryl’s lodgings Jago and Cradock navigated their way safely round the landlady and climbed the stairs to her door, where they were greeted by a bleary-eyed Beryl.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ she said. ‘I’m not long out of bed. It was a bit noisy last night, and I didn’t sleep well.’
‘The anti-aircraft guns?’ said Jago.
‘No,’ she replied, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. ‘It was Mrs Jenks, my landlady. She sleeps in the next room – I think it’s her way of making sure I don’t break her “no gentlemen visitors” rule. The thing is, she snores like a … Well, let’s just say she snores very loudly. I’m starting late today, though, so I managed to have a bit of a lie-in.’
‘I’m sorry if we’ve prevented you getting your sleep.’
‘No, I was up and dressed before you arrived, as you can see.’
She was indeed dressed, and very well, in a smartly cut woollen suit. Surprisingly well, thought Jago, for a woman living in such humble surroundings. But then a lot of young women seemed to spend most of their income on clothes, in his limited experience.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ said Beryl. ‘I was just about to make one.’
‘No, thank you,’ Jago replied. ‘We won’t be here long.’
‘All right. So how can I help you?’
‘Well, I’m afraid I have to raise a delicate matter with you. I didn’t like to mention it when we first spoke, as you’d only just heard what’d happened to Joan, but the fact is, the way your sister was killed bore some of the hallmarks of a number of other murders that’ve taken place over recent years. Please understand that this may have nothing to do with your sister’s death, but in those cases most of the women were prostitutes, one of them from East Ham. So I have to ask you – do you have any reason to suspect that your sister might’ve been involved in that kind of activity?’
Beryl’s eyes widened. ‘You’re saying my sister was a prostitute?’
‘No, I’m not saying she was anything. I’m simply asking the question.’
‘Of course she wasn’t. Honestly, you policemen always think the worst of people. No, Joan would never do that. I don’t think she’d ever have dreamt of it. Anyway, she had a job, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, of course, and I apologise for having to ask such an insensitive question. But it’s not unknown for wives to be tempted in times like these – their husbands are away at war overseas, and they have to cope with all the pressures of life on their own. And you did say she was lonely.’
‘Well, that’s as may be, but it was natural for her to feel lonely if her husband was away overseas and missing. Look, I can assure you I have no reason to believe my sister had anything whatsoever to do with prostitution, and I hope that answer’s clear enough for you.’
‘Thank you, and again I’m sorry. I had no wish to upset you.’
‘Yes, well never mind.’
‘I must also ask you another rather delicate question.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘When I spoke to you before, I asked you if your sister had any male friends, and you said you weren’t aware of her being close to any men in particular. But since then it’s been suggested to us that your manager, Mr Conway, has what might be called an eye for the ladies, and may have had a particular interest in your sister. Do you know anything about that?’
‘An eye for the ladies? I’d say that’s a fair description. Have you heard about his inspections?’
‘We’ve been told he’s very particular about the staff’s appearance.’
‘Yes, he is, and he’s especially keen to check the appearance of the female staff. Very thorough, if you ask me, getting all the usherettes lined up and checking their seams are straight. Quite the perfectionist.’
‘Are you suggesting his attention to detail goes beyond the requirements of his duties as a manager?’
Beryl responded to his question with a knowing smile. ‘That’s a nice way of putting it, Inspector. The way he studies our details, you’d think he was going to paint us in oils. But then that’s the thing – I think he fancies himself as some sort of artist, and you know what those artists are like for painting women.’
‘An artist? I understood his interest was in photography.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t mean he actually does paintings. I mean I think he likes taking photos. Artistic photos. That’s what they call them, isn’t it? Like those postcards you hear about. He’s keen on that kind of photography. The other usherettes warned me when I started there – said he likes the girls to model for him. Cheeky monkey, I thought. Let him try and get me to pose. I reckon that’s what he had in that safe, you know – his private art collection, saucy snaps of any girl stupid enough to fall for his tricks.’
‘Did Joan ever mention this?’
‘I can’t remember her saying. I think she must’ve been aware of it, but if you mean did he try it on with her, my guess would be no. I think he was a bit wary of asking the married women – you never know who might turn out to have a boxer for a husband. Mind you, he found a job for Joan fast enough when the Broadway Super was bombed, didn’t he? Very attentive. Saucy Sid – that’s what the girls call him.’
‘But you’re not aware of any close relationship between Joan and Mr Conway. Is that right?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know. She certainly never told me. If you want to ask that sort of question, you’d better talk to Cynthia Carlton. She seems to know everything about everyone else’s business at the cinema.’
‘Actually it was something Miss Carlton said that first suggested there might’ve been something between them, although I hasten to add she didn’t make any specific allegation.’
‘There you are, then. There’s nothing that woman likes more than a bit of juicy gossip. The only time she doesn’t like gossip is when it’s about her, and there’s plenty of that – about her and Mr Conway, too.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not say. I don’t like gossip, and I don’t pass it on when I hear it.’
‘Quite.’
‘Not that there isn’t things I could tell you if I had a mind to. Especially about that family Joan married into. For instance, did you know Audrey’s husband was some kind of moneylender?’
‘It has been said.’
‘Oh, right. Shocking, isn’t it? And her so respectable. And that Madame Zara?’
‘Her name has been mentioned. Do you know her?’
‘Not personally, no. But apparently Audrey’s obsessed with finding her husband’s money, only she can’t, because he hid it. Since he dropped dead no one’s been able to find it, so she thought if she got this Madame Zara to have a seance she could get in touch with the other side – that’s what they call it – and someone over there might tell her where to look. Funny idea if you ask me, asking dead people questions like that, but it takes all sorts, doesn’t it?’
‘And what about Richard, Joan’s husband? Did he believe his father had hidden his money somewhere?’
‘I don’t think so. Joan never mentioned it, anyway. She did go to see Madame Zara herself once, though.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I think Audrey persuaded her to go along, to see if she could tell them anything about what’d happened to Richard – Joan hadn’t heard a thing. Not that being in the dark was anything new for her – I’m not sure Richard even told her he was joining the TA in the first place.’
‘Really? What makes you think that?’
‘Oh, nothing really. It wasn’t anything anyone said, just an impression I got. I may be wrong. But anyway, maybe Madame Zara thought the spirits would be more forthcoming if his wife and mother were both asking – I don’t know.’
Jago moved to the room’s one small window. The streaks of grime suggested it hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. He looked down as a few spots of rain began to land on it, and saw only the backs of similar houses in the next road. He turned back to Beryl.
‘Do you know where this Madame Zara lives?’
‘Yes. Joan told me. It’s 77 Eleanor Road. I remember that, because seven’s my lucky number, and I thought an address like that might be double lucky, especially if your name’s Eleanor. But mine isn’t, of course. And by the way, I don’t think Madame Zara’s her real name. Joan said it was just made up – she’s really called Vera. I’ve never met her, mind, so I just took Joan’s word for it.’
‘What happened when Joan went to see her?’
‘She didn’t say. I don’t know whether she believed in that kind of thing. Audrey certainly did, though, as far as I can tell. As for Madame Zara, or Vera or whatever her name is, I reckon she’s just been taking money off a foolish old woman. But if that gives Audrey some pleasure or comfort, let her do it, that’s what I say. It’s a free country.’
‘Do you have any reason to think Madame Zara is deliberately trying to deceive her?’
‘No. I just reckon Audrey can’t get used to the idea of her husband dying and wants to go back to when they were together. Some people are like that, aren’t they? Especially when they get older. They always seem to think the old days were better. But you can’t live in the past, that’s what I say. My boyfriend’s always going on about the past, even though he’s young, like me. Always talking about dead people I’ve never heard of. He calls it history, but I think it’s just boring old stories. Politics, too.’