by Mike Hollow
Soper looked up from his desk.
“But you’ve already said you think it was murder.”
“Yes,” said Jago, “but we didn’t tell her that.”
Soper scratched his head.
“Now you’re losing me. But what about the son?”
Keep up, thought Jago. This was the man in charge of all criminal investigation on K Division of the Metropolitan Police. He’d been good in his day, but if it hadn’t been for the war and the manpower shortages he’d probably have been tending his roses by now.
“He didn’t get on with his father, sir, that’s for sure,” said Cradock. “There was quite a bit of bad feeling there. I could imagine him snapping and doing something violent.”
“So there’s a possibility that either he or his mother could be involved,” said Jago. “Neither of them seems to have had much time for him. Or they could be in it together. Or for that matter one or both of them could have got someone else to do it. They might be covering up for each other: they’ve only got each other for an alibi at the time of death. But it could be someone quite unconnected with them. If whoever killed him wanted it to look like suicide, they may have known of something going on in his life that would make that plausible.”
“Sounds like you need to do some more digging,” said Soper. “Just keep your noses clean. Don’t go digging a hole for yourselves. Is my meaning clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jago. “No need for you to worry. We won’t tread on any toes.”
Soper leaned back into his chair and scrutinized him across the desk. Jago couldn’t tell whether the DDI was pondering his words or had simply run out of things to say.
The silence was broken by a creak from the older man’s chair as he returned it to an upright position.
“One more thing before you go, John,” said Soper. “You’ve got an appointment tomorrow with a man from the Ministry of Information. He’s called Mitchell and he’s bringing a newspaper journalist down here to meet you. An American, if you please.”
“American? What does the American press want with me?”
“Don’t ask me. Seems they want to do a report on East End morale under the Nazi onslaught – you can imagine the kind of thing – and someone thinks a bit of local police liaison would be a good idea. Your name came out of the hat. Or to be more precise, you were specifically requested by the man from the ministry.”
“How strange,” said Jago. “Any idea why?”
“Ours but to do…” said Soper. “Perhaps it was that medal you got.”
“Plenty of police officers have medals, sir.”
“But they don’t all get their picture in the papers, do they?”
“That wasn’t my fault, sir.”
“I’m not suggesting it was. But it seems you’ve caught someone’s eye. Anyway, I’ve said you’ll meet them at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon, here. And I gather the Ministry of Information thinks it’s crucial that the American public read the right thing about what’s going on here, so watch what you say.”
Soper picked up the file again and motioned with his hand to indicate Jago was free to go. Jago rose from his chair and made for the door, collecting his hat and coat on the way. Before he got his hand to the doorknob he heard Soper’s voice behind him.
“Gas mask, John.”
He looked back at the coat stand. His gas mask was still hanging there. He grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Regulations, you know. We can’t have police personnel going about without their gas mask. Got to set a good example to the public. Even police officers with medals aren’t gas-proof.”
“How’s his lordship this morning?”
Jago recognized the hoarse tone coming from the front desk. The station wouldn’t be the same without it.
“Respect, Tompkins, respect,” he said, suppressing a smile.
“Sorry, sir,” said the station sergeant. “I mean how’s Mr Soper, of course.”
“That’s better,” said Jago. “He’s in fine form.”
Sergeant Tompkins gave Jago a weary look over the top of his half-moon reading glasses.
“More’s the pity. Before we know it he’ll start having ideas. And we know where that gets us, don’t we? Just like the old days in France. You remember: the footsloggers up to their wossnames in mud at the front, and all those red tab staff officers in their chateaux miles behind the lines, coming up with ideas.”
“But you weren’t in the infantry, were you, Tompkins?”
“No, sir, not exactly, but near enough. Ally Sloper’s Cavalry, that was me.”
“Come now, where’s your regimental pride?” said Jago teasingly. “You make the Army Service Corps sound like a bunch of loafers and ne’er-do-wells. Didn’t it get turned into the Royal Army Service Corps at the end of the war? You can’t all have been scoundrels.”
“That’s as may be, sir, but as far as I was concerned it was just horse transport, driving ammunition wagons up to the front line for four years with the occasional distraction of getting shelled and shot at. And what did I get for it?” He fingered the medal ribbons on his tunic. “Pip, Squeak and Wilfred here, two pounds in my pocket, and a third-class railway warrant home.”
“But you came through,” said Jago.
“Yes, and don’t think I’m not grateful for that. But here we are now and it’s happening all over again, going from bad to worse.”
He paused, lost in thought.
“Anyway, sir, I’ve got something for you here. There was a bloke brought in late Friday night, found in the cemetery, all roughed up. Turned out he was quite a respectable type, though, if you know what I mean: not the sort to get mixed up in a brawl in a graveyard. Didn’t want to make a complaint, though. When we asked him who’d done it he clammed up. Looked frightened. If you ask me, there’s some funny business going on. Thought you might like to know.”
“Thanks,” said Jago. “I’ll get Cradock to follow it up.”
He walked back to his office in search of Cradock and a cup of tea. It was nine o’clock. He thought of what the last two days had brought, and what might yet come. Old Frank Tompkins was right: it was all going from bad to worse.
CHAPTER 9
Jago and Cradock took the number 697 trolleybus from the police station down to Plaistow High Street and walked the short distance from the stop to Westfield Street. They knocked on the front door of number 18 and heard the sound of feet padding down the passage. The door opened a little and they saw a short, trim woman in a black dress covered with a sleeveless wrap-around apron made from blue and white floral-print cotton. She peered round the door at them.
“Detective Inspector Jago and Detective Constable Cradock, West Ham CID,” said Jago. “Mrs Carson?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“We’ve come to see your son Billy, Mrs Carson. I expect you know he reported finding a body to us on Saturday evening.”
“Yes, he’s here. Come in. Please excuse my pinny.” She slipped off the apron and rolled it into a ball, clutching it nervously to her waist.
“He was expecting you to call today,” she said, “and Sainsbury’s said he could stay at home until you’d finished with him. Come this way.”
They followed her down the narrow passage into the rear part of the house.
“You don’t mind the kitchen, do you?” said Irene. “I would offer you the parlour, only there’s a touch of damp in there at the moment, and what with everything that’s been happening I haven’t had a chance to do anything about it.”
They seated themselves at the table. Cradock noticed that Jago, true to his precept, took the chair that faced into the room. Irene kept her pinny rolled up in her lap.
“Cup of tea?” she said, half getting up.
“No, thank you. We don’t want to put you to any trouble. We shan’t be long.”
“OK, then.” She sat down again and looked up warily.
“Could we see Billy? I
s he here?”
“Yes, of course; I’ll call him.”
She went to the foot of the stairs and called his name. Billy came down and walked slowly into the room. He took a seat without meeting their gaze.
“It’s all right, Billy, there’s nothing to worry about. We just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Nothing to worry about?” He turned to Irene. “Mum, haven’t you told them?”
Irene dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her crumpled apron. “No,” she said.
Jago leaned closer and spoke quietly.
“Has something happened?”
She shook her head silently, holding the pinny to her face.
“I’d better explain, then.” Billy turned to the two policemen. “It’s about my dad.”
He looked at his mother, but she did not raise her head.
“He’s in the merchant navy. Able seaman, on freighters, on the Atlantic run as far as we know. On Saturday afternoon my mum got a telegram. It was from the shipping line, and it said his ship had been sunk, with no known survivors. Then we got a letter from them that said the same.”
“Billy,” said Irene, “it said we weren’t allowed to tell anyone.”
“But these are policemen, Mum. Surely it’s all right to tell them?”
“Yes,” said Jago, “you’re allowed to tell us, but apart from us it’s just your immediate family.”
“The telegram said he’s reported missing.” He turned to Jago with pain in his eyes. “That means he’s dead, doesn’t it?”
“It means you must be prepared for the worst,” said Jago.
Irene sobbed, then wiped her face firmly.
“I’m sorry, Inspector, it’s just too hard to bear. But you carry on; I’ll be all right.” She sat up straight in her chair and pushed the apron to one side.
“Thank you, Mrs Carson,” said Jago. “I’m very sorry.”
He turned to Billy.
“I gather you work for Sainsbury’s. Is that right?”
“Yes, up in Angel Lane, in Stratford. I went there straight from school and I’ve been there two years now. I work on the dairy counter.”
“Are you one of the young assistants who pat the butter with those wooden paddles?”
“Yes, that’s my favourite thing.”
“I used to love watching it when I was a boy. And what do you do with the rest of your time?”
“I’m one of Gillman’s Daredevils. Have you heard of us?”
“I don’t think I have. Is that anything to do with Councillor Gillman?”
“Yes, he started the Daredevils last year, when the war started. It’s a team of ARP messengers, about two dozen of us, mostly boys. At first we didn’t have much to do, but just lately it’s got really busy. That’s how I came to find that bloke in the van – but then you know that already.”
The sound of the front door creaking open and then loudly slamming was followed by a heavier set of footsteps in the passage. Robert Carson entered the room and stopped short.
“Oh, it’s you lot,” he said, with a dismissive look. “I’d forgotten you were going to be here.”
“And you are…?” said Jago.
Irene jumped to her feet.
“This is my other son, Robert,” she said. “My other one who’s still at home, that is. My oldest, Joe, is in the Army.”
“And before you ask,” said Robert, “I’m in a reserved occupation. Electrician in the docks. Vital war work.”
He tossed his cap onto a chair and sat down.
“I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is Detective Constable Cradock. We’re here because your brother reported finding a dead body on Saturday evening,” said Jago.
“Do you know who he was yet?” said Billy.
“We do,” said Jago. “He was Mr Charles Villiers, a local businessman and magistrate.”
He studied the faces of the mother and her two sons, ranged before him. Robert looked indifferent, Billy’s expression was blank. Irene reacted with a barely perceptible but startled intake of breath.
“Do you know him?” asked Jago.
“Never heard of him,” said Robert.
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t mix with magistrates. I’m a working man.”
“Billy?”
“I know the name, but I’ve never seen him before.”
“Mrs Carson?”
“Well, yes,” she began slowly. “I work for him. I do some cleaning at his company, Invicta Printing.”
“And what kind of man was he?”
“I don’t know as I can say, really. I didn’t really have anything to do with him.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, he was the boss, wasn’t he? I’m just a cleaner.”
“Two different worlds, Mr Jago,” said Robert, staring him in the eye. “The bosses and the workers. One lives off the backs of the others, and never the twain shall meet. I’m not surprised if someone’s done him in: a man like that probably had lots of enemies. Probably got his comeuppance. His sort all will one day.”
“A man like what?” said Jago. “You said you’d never heard of him.”
“I haven’t. But they’re all the same. Bosses, capitalists, they’re all oppressors of the working class. All they want is profit, and they’ll cut any corner to get it. All I’m saying is people who play rough like that sometimes get it back.”
“I don’t think I said anything about him having been killed by someone either,” said Jago.
“Well, I was just assuming, wasn’t I? Why else would you coppers be here?”
Irene interrupted. “Mr Jago, don’t take any notice of what Robert says. He’s a bit passionate about his beliefs, that’s all. I don’t hold with everything he says, but if it turns out that Mr Villiers was killed because he was up to no good, one of those war profiteers or something, I’d say good riddance.”
“Calm down, Mum,” said Billy. “Don’t get in a state.”
“I won’t calm down. I’ve just lost my husband, Mr Jago, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. He risked his life to bring food and everything we need into this country, and all they paid him was three pounds eleven and six a week. And now he’s dead. I’ve heard stories about thieving in the docks that would make your hair stand on end. As soon as the stuff’s unloaded, there’s someone out there stealing it and making a fortune out of people like me and my husband. There’s no justice in this world, no justice.”
She began weeping, and Billy put his arm round her.
“We’ll be on our way now, Mrs Carson,” said Jago.
He turned as he reached the door and heard Irene’s sobbing voice.
“People like that deserve everything they get.”
CHAPTER 10
“Griggs,” said the man in the brown warehouse coat and cloth cap. “Goods in and out, gatekeeper, caretaker, and general dogsbody, that’s me.” He eyed them up and down like an undertaker estimating for a coffin. “Nothing gets in or out of Invicta Printing without me knowing. So how can I help you two gentlemen?”
There was barely room for Jago and Cradock to squeeze into the dilapidated wooden shack in which Griggs mounted guard over the entrance to the printing works. Jago nudged a box to one side with his foot to make a little more space to stand in.
“We’re investigating the death of Mr Villiers,” he said. “Were you here on Saturday when he left the premises?”
“That I was,” said Griggs. “On duty as usual.”
“Can you tell us what time he left?”
Griggs pulled a grubby book from under the wooden desk and thumbed through the pages.
“Here we are,” he said, bending back the spine of the book and placing it on the desk in front of them. He stabbed at an entry with a dirt-engrained forefinger. “He left at a quarter to eight in the evening, in the van, with Mr Johnson – he’s one of the bosses here.”
“And who was driving?”
“It was Mr Johnson. I remember because the wind
ow was open and I had to bend down close to say goodnight to Mr Villiers, and Mr Johnson pulled a face, as if I was smelly or something.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
“No, but then again that’s none of my business. I just have to clock people in and out, and write it in this book of mine,” said Griggs. “I assumed Mr Johnson was driving Mr Villiers home. I was off yesterday, and then when I came in this morning I wondered why the van wasn’t back, but then I heard that Mr V had been killed and all in that air raid.”
“Thank you, Mr Griggs,” said Jago. “We spoke to Mr Edward Villiers yesterday, and he recommended that we speak to Mr Johnson.”
“Ah, yes, young Mr Villiers,” said Griggs, with a smirk that suggested he was sharing a private joke with himself.
“Is Mr Johnson here today?” said Jago.
“Yes.”
“In that case we’d like to see him.”
“Very well, gentlemen, if you’d care to follow me I’ll take you to his office.”
He took a last drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out in an ashtray overflowing with dog ends, and rose from the cluttered desk. At the door he paused and reflected for a moment. “I suppose that’ll be just ‘Mr Villiers’ now,” he said, and led Jago and Cradock out of the hut.
They followed him as he plodded across the cobbled yard of Invicta Printing Ltd. Griggs noticed that Cradock was holding his nose, and laughed.
“Sorry about the smell,” he said. “That’ll be the chemical works down the road. It makes an almighty stink, especially if the wind’s blowing the wrong way. You get used to it in the end. Doesn’t seem like the kind of place a man like Mr Villiers would choose for his business, does it? But I reckon it’s probably cheap here, and helps to keep his profits up.”
The yard was enclosed on three sides by buildings that looked as though they might date back to early Victorian times, with worn bricks and sagging roofs. Cheap or not, they were certainly showing their age, thought Cradock.