The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Martin.

  Ernie took a step towards Jago. The confident air had suddenly faded from his face: he looked baffled.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘I don’t get it. Are you saying my dad and my brother were out robbing a cinema?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’

  ‘And you think I had something to do with it?’

  ‘No, Mr Sullivan, I don’t think you did.’

  Ernie Sullivan was still puzzled. ‘So you mean this is nothing to do with Joan?’

  Before Jago could answer, he saw from the corner of his eye Martin Sullivan hurling himself towards the back door. He shouted a warning, but Cradock had already seen. He stuck out a foot and sent Martin flying to the floor. The young man jumped back to his feet and seized the door handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. He rattled it noisily, but to no avail.

  ‘This what you’re looking for?’ said Cradock, holding a key aloft. ‘Someone’s locked it, I’m afraid.’ He slipped the key into his pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Peter,’ said Jago, as Cradock pushed Martin and his father onto chairs at the table while Ernie stood to one side, a silent spectator. ‘And now perhaps you’d better attend to the other door, in case anyone else should have a sudden desire to leave.’

  There was no key in the other door, so Cradock took up position in front of it, blocking this remaining way out.

  Jago surveyed the room, and something tucked behind the clock on the mantelpiece caught his eye. He crossed to the fireplace to take a closer look.

  ‘What do we have here?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘It appears to be a brown envelope. A somewhat bulging one, sealed with wax – or rather, formerly sealed with wax.’

  ‘Really? So is it a crime now to have a brown envelope in your house?’

  ‘That depends on what’s in the envelope, doesn’t it? It looks as though there’s more than just a letter.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are you a betting man, Mr Sullivan?’

  ‘What’s it to you if I am?’

  ‘I don’t mind an occasional wager myself. What would you say to a little bet that I can tell you what’s inside that envelope without looking?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I suspect you know that if I open it I’ll find some photographs inside.’

  ‘I told you – I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Let’s see if I’m right, then.’

  Jago covered his hand with a clean handkerchief and removed the envelope from behind the clock. It was clear that the wax seal was broken and the flap had been opened. He rejoined George and Martin Sullivan at the table, then gently shook the envelope over it. Half a dozen photographs and some negatives spilt out. He scrutinised the photos and recognised the face of a woman.

  ‘Bit saucy, aren’t they?’ said Martin with a smirk.

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ said his father, glaring at him.

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Jago. ‘Now, tell me, what do you know about these photos?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said George. ‘Never seen them before.’

  ‘It’s too late for that too. Right, you’re under arrest, both of you. You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you say may be given in evidence. Now, sit still where you are and don’t try any funny business. I’d like to take a look at something else that caught my eye over there before we take you down to the station.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Sullivan senior, his voice as surly as his face.

  Jago stepped back across the room to the fireplace, next to which was a cupboard. The door was open, revealing a pile of newspapers neatly stacked on a shelf. He reached in and took the copy lying on top of the pile, then held it up.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘This looks interesting.’

  The masthead of the paper bore the words An Phoblacht, and underneath in English The Republic. It was dated July 1937.

  ‘A bit behind in your reading, are you, George?’

  ‘It’s a keepsake,’ Sullivan muttered. ‘I kept it for historical interest, if you must know – that’s the last one published before it was shut down.’

  ‘Shut down by whom?’

  ‘By the Irish government.’

  Jago opened the paper and studied the inside pages briefly.

  ‘There’s an article here about the Republican Army Council,’ he said, as lightly as if he’d just found a report on a football match. ‘Seems to be all in favour of it. That’ll be the Irish Republican Army, I suppose. Friends of yours?’

  ‘I’m interested in politics, that’s all,’ said George.

  ‘And Irish politics in particular?’

  ‘Any politics. There’s nothing illegal about being interested in politics.’

  ‘No, but as you may be aware, there are some aspects of involvement with the IRA that are.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  Jago put the newspaper down on the table and took another look into the cupboard.

  ‘I suppose this is of interest to students of politics too.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper and held it up for Cradock to see. ‘It’s a proclamation,’ he said. ‘Let’s see.’ He read from the sheet: ‘“We call upon England to withdraw her armed forces, her civilian officials, and institutions and representatives of all kinds from every part of Ireland … and we call upon the people of all Ireland at home and in exile to assist us in the effort we are about to make in God’s name to compel that evacuation and to enthrone the republic of Ireland.”’

  Jago placed the sheet on the table, next to the newspaper, and turned to Martin.

  ‘I’ve heard it suggested that you might share some of these views. Is that correct?’

  Martin said nothing but looked at his father, his eyes pleading for help.

  ‘Leave the boy alone,’ said George. ‘It’s nothing to do with him.’

  ‘Does your interest in Ireland extend to doing a little fundraising for the IRA? Perhaps emptying the safe at the Regal cinema and donating the proceeds to them?’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense. I’m not a criminal. Look, as far as I’m concerned the Irish Republican Army has a good cause. So what? I’m entitled to my belief, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can shoot me if you like, but it won’t make any difference – I believe they’re right.’

  Once the two suspects were safely locked in the cells, the detectives returned to the CID office.

  ‘Those photos, sir,’ said Cradock. ‘I couldn’t see them from where I was standing. What did Sullivan mean when he said they were a bit saucy?’

  Jago handed him the envelope.

  ‘Have a look for yourself,’ he said. ‘And take care of them. We’ll need to show them to Mr Conway so he can confirm they’re his and that they were in the safe.’

  ‘Which will prove that the Sullivans were the safe-breakers, right?’

  ‘Not necessarily proof in itself, but certainly strong evidence. Get them checked for fingerprints. If we find George Sullivan’s on any of those photos he’ll have a hard time maintaining he’s never seen them.’

  ‘Yes, sir, will do.’

  Cradock let some of the photos slide out of the envelope onto the desk and examined them.

  ‘I see, sir. They’re a bit, er—’

  ‘Glamorous? Yes. If those Sullivans’d had more sense they’d have thrown the whole lot away. They might’ve been in the clear then. But you can see why I suspect they may’ve taken a liking to them and decided to keep them. He makes the women look like Hollywood stars, doesn’t he? Very languid. I’m surprised they didn’t catch their death of cold.’

  ‘Oh, and look – that one there.’

  ‘Yes. You know who that is, don’t you?’

  ‘I do. It’s Cynthia Carlton. What a lark.’

  ‘Now, now, Peter. The poor woman may be quite embarrassed when she finds out
what we’ve got, so we’ll have to treat her very carefully. Make sure nobody else sees those – I don’t want to hear you’ve been passing them round the station.’

  ‘I should think Conway might be a bit embarrassed too.’

  ‘Really? I’m not so sure. For him this is art, and he’s the artist, and I’m sure it was all done in the best possible taste. We may just have to remind him of the provisions of the Obscene Publications Act, even though it doesn’t actually define what obscene means.’

  ‘He’ll probably have a pretty good idea, though.’

  ‘Precisely. I’m not sure there’s anything in that envelope that a magistrate would be likely to judge obscene, but it’d be wise for Conway not to cross the line in future. For now, all we need to know is that they’re his. We’ll have to tell him we’re keeping them as evidence, and if he wants them for his competition he’ll have to get some more prints made. I think I’ll advise him to get the permission of the ladies concerned before he submits them, too, if he hasn’t already done that, otherwise he might discover he’s acquired a black eye or two.’

  ‘Shall I get a search warrant from the magistrate to search the Sullivans’ house too?’

  ‘No, that’ll take too long. Get in touch with the superintendent and ask him for a written order to search. If we suspect they might have explosives hidden on the premises, he can do that – just say we’re asking for it under section 73 of the Explosives Act 1875. Tell him we’ve got reasonable ground for believing an offence has been committed with respect to an explosive and it’s an emergency. We don’t want the house blowing up while they’re locked in the cells. That should do the trick.’

  ‘So young Ernie’s dropped them right in it, hasn’t he? Without his alibi they’re sunk. But what I don’t understand is what’s in it for him?’

  ‘Perhaps it’s simply the satisfaction of knowing that he’s done his civic duty.’

  Cradock looked at Jago cautiously. Sometimes he just couldn’t tell whether his boss was being serious.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Cradock looked at the clock on the wall of the CID office. It was coming up to five o’clock, the time when people with normal jobs might start thinking about going home. Sometimes he envied them: in the CID you had to put in whatever hours the job required. He wondered how Jago had put up with it all these years, and whether that was why he’d never married. Too busy to find the time? It was a question he was certainly never going to ask: the detective inspector wasn’t the sort of man you could expect to get to know, especially if you were a detective constable. He never dropped his guard.

  He was lost in these thoughts when Jago came in through the door.

  ‘Right, Peter,’ he said. ‘It’s about going-home time now, isn’t it?’

  Cradock’s face brightened. ‘Time for us to knock off, you mean, guv’nor?’

  ‘Knock off? At this time? Don’t be ridiculous. No, I meant for the bank. That fellow Pemberton down at the National Provincial said he didn’t like to keep the girls at work after dark, and it’s nearly sunset now, so Carol Hurst should be just about finishing work. There’s something I want to ask her.’

  ‘Really, sir? What about?’

  ‘I’m curious to know whether there’s anything more she knows about this idea of some kind of affair between Joan and Conway. It was Carol who first told us she thought Joan was a bit of a flirt, and she also said she thought her marriage had gone a bit sour, but she didn’t say anything about an affair. Yet when we spoke to Cynthia Carlton yesterday, she claimed Joan had been having an affair with Conway, and she even suspected Joan was in the family way. You’d have thought Joan might’ve said something to her closest friend about all that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I suppose I would, yes,’ Cradock replied. ‘And there was something about those photos we found.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that there weren’t any of Joan in that envelope.’

  ‘Well done, Peter – very observant of you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Mind you, I’m not sure it means anything. The fact that Conway persuaded those girls to let him take their picture doesn’t mean he was in that kind of relationship with any of them.’

  ‘There was one of Cynthia, and it appears she was one of his old flames.’

  ‘Yes, but maybe he included that one because he’d finished with her. He might’ve thought it’d be bad taste to put a picture of his current girlfriend into a competition, especially if he knew Joan was … well, you know.’

  ‘In the family way?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cradock, embarrassed to feel his face flushing.

  ‘You may have a point, but in any case we’ll have to speak to Conway about those photos, and before we do I’d like to know whether Carol can tell us anything more about this relationship he had with Joan, if it really happened. There’s something else, too. The last time we spoke to Carol, she was starting to tell us about Richard Lewis and his funny ideas about economics, and the big falling out he had with his dad, but then the bank manager came in and interrupted us. There’s bad feeling in that family, isn’t there? And it seems to be all about money – Charlie Lewis’s money. I want to know if she can tell us more about that.’

  ‘And there’s no time like the present, eh, sir?’ said Cradock, making little effort to conceal the glumness in his voice.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jago, picking up the phone. ‘I’m going to call the bank now.’

  Ten minutes later Jago parked the car outside the bank in time to meet Carol Hurst as she emerged onto the street.

  ‘There’s a rather nice ABC tea room just down here,’ he said after they had exchanged greetings. ‘I expect you know it. They do some very good toasted tea cakes, and I thought you might like to join us for one.’

  He felt a tinge of disloyalty to Rita and her cafe on hearing himself recommend a rival establishment, but was reassured to notice that his suggestion seemed to have brought a new spark of life into Cradock.

  They found a table in a quiet corner of the tea room, and Jago ordered tea and toasted tea cakes for all three of them.

  ‘I don’t want to keep you long, Miss Hurst,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve had a tiring day and you’ll be wanting to get home before the sirens start, but there’s just a couple of things I’d like to ask you. First I must thank you for introducing us to your manager, Mr Pemberton, the other day. He was most helpful in explaining social credit to us.’

  ‘Did you understand it, then?’ said Carol with a barely suppressed giggle. ‘It sounds like just giving everyone money for nothing, and I can’t see that ever happening. But as long as you got what you wanted, that’s fine.’

  ‘We got enough for our purposes, I think. When we spoke to you before, you said Joan agreed with Richard’s convictions about social credit, but his father didn’t. Did Joan ever give any indication of what their disagreement was about?’

  ‘She mentioned it, but I’m not sure I followed it all. From what I remember, she said the idea with social credit was that the government would give ordinary people money for nothing, so they could spend it and keep the economy going, and Richard reckoned that’d be good for everyone.’

  ‘But his father didn’t?’

  ‘No. Charlie reckoned it was like fairy tales – something only children and fools would believe in. He said he’d worked hard for his money – although as I told you before, he didn’t believe in sharing it, especially not with the taxman, and possibly not even with his wife. Joan used to say Charlie reckoned it sounded like the communists in Russia or the fascists in Germany – both lots said they could abolish unemployment and create jobs for everyone, but they could only do that by ruining their economies. He said private enterprise and capitalism were the only things that could create prosperity. That’s about all I can remember. Joan told me Richard would get quite cross about it. He said it’s all very well to say capitalism works when you’re the one with the money, but there can’t be prosperity if you don
’t share it. Apparently he had a big row with his dad about dodging his taxes, and they ended up not speaking to each other.’

  ‘And Joan supported Richard in all this, you say.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I can’t say Joan ever struck me as an expert on economics. I mean, she was an usherette, not a bank manager. That’s how they first met, actually, her and Richard. He saw her at the pictures, when she was working, and chatted her up. That was two years ago, I think. They wanted to get married, but apparently Richard’s dad disapproved. Wanted something better for his son, I suppose. But then he died sometime later that year and couldn’t disapprove any more, so they got married at the beginning of last year. I was there – at the wedding, I mean. It was a freezing cold day. Nothing fancy – just a quick, simple affair at the register office.’

  A waitress in a blue dress brought their drinks and tea cakes and deposited them on the table with a smile, then left.

  ‘How did the rest of the family take to that?’ Jago continued.

  ‘Him marrying her, you mean? There wasn’t any fuss that I noticed. They seemed pretty indifferent – but then Charlie’d just died, and Audrey was very cut up about losing him, so I suppose she was more preoccupied with that.’

  ‘But you implied before that Joan’s relationship with Audrey was somewhat strained – “It wasn’t all roses,” I think you said.’

  ‘Yes. Mind you, I was only looking in from the outside, wasn’t I? It didn’t seem very good to me, but then again their circumstances weren’t ideal. I mean, they were living in his mother’s house. Are you married, Inspector?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, neither am I, and never have been, but like I said, it’s well known, isn’t it? If you marry a man and have to live under your mother-in-law’s roof there’s always going to be trouble. You can’t have two women ruling the roost in a household, or in a marriage, and if your mother-in-law won’t let her little boy go, how can he ever be a proper husband?’

  She seemed to wait for agreement, but Jago treated her question as rhetorical. Confronted by his silence, she continued.