Direct Hit

by Mike Hollow

  “This used to be a silk-printing works back in the old days,” said Griggs, “or so they say. But they packed that in years ago. It just does what I’d call normal stuff now.”

  He pointed to the first building on their left, a two-storey structure with a slate roof, large wooden double doors, and two small windows.

  “That there’s the main store, where we keep the stock.”

  “Stock?” said Cradock.

  “That’ll be paper to you, sonny,” said Griggs. “We’re a printer’s, and paper’s the stuff what we print on.”

  Cradock cast a wondering look at Jago but said nothing.

  “Then we’ve got the garage, where we keep the van; used to be a stable, as you can probably tell. The bit next to it, that’s where we keep all the old junk: a couple of presses that we don’t use any more, and that sort of thing. I reckon that’s where they’ll be chucking me before too long.”

  He laughed, but there was a bitterness in his tone that struck both the men with him. He wheezed and began to cough. Pausing until he could speak again, he gestured towards the building directly in front of them, the largest in the yard. A repetitive clunking and hissing of machinery pounded through its partly opened windows and echoed round the yard.

  “Over there’s the main print shop with the newer machines: that’s where all the work gets done these days. You’ll find it a bit noisy in there. Mr Johnson’ll be up them stairs there, in the office.”

  Griggs stumped up the steel staircase that ran along the outside wall of the building to a door on the first floor, with the two detectives in his wake. He knocked on the door and showed them in.

  “Some visitors for you, Mr Johnson. Policemen. They’d like to have a word with you about poor Mr Villiers.”

  “Thank you,” said the man sitting before them. He rose to greet them, removing a cigarette from the corner of his mouth and placing it carefully in an ashtray on the desk. He was tall and heavily built, and wearing a dark suit with a white shirt and a black tie. As he extended his right arm to shake hands, Jago noted the worn cuff and the ink stains on his fingers. Johnson caught his eye and smiled.

  “Please excuse the state of my hands, Mr…?”

  “Jago, Detective Inspector. And this is Detective Constable Cradock.”

  “Albert Johnson. As I was saying, please excuse the state of my hands. I help Mr Villiers – or I suppose I should say helped him – to run the company, but in this line of work you have to be willing to get your hands dirty. And that was my side of the business rather than his.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve worked in print all my life. Mr Villiers got the orders in and dealt with the clients, but I’m the one who runs the practical side. I don’t think he would ever have described himself as an expert in printing.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  Johnson retrieved the cigarette from the ashtray and drew deeply on it, blowing a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

  “Just over two years. I joined the company in 1938.”

  “And how would you describe Mr Villiers?”

  “Well, I can’t say I knew him well. He was the boss, if you know what I mean. We didn’t socialize outside the job. He moved in different circles to me.”

  “And what kind of circles would they be?”

  “Oh, you know: people with big houses and fancy wives, the Rotary Club probably, businessmen, wheelers and dealers. Senior policemen too, I shouldn’t wonder, what with him being a magistrate.”

  “Do you have any idea of how the business was going?”

  “I don’t see all the figures, but to be honest, I think the war saved him. When I first came it all seemed a bit hand to mouth, but then we started getting government work, information leaflets and suchlike, and since then we’ve been working at full capacity most of the time. Mind you, even in the bad old days when the machines were idle, it didn’t seem to cramp his style. Always had a new car, that kind of thing.”

  “And how would you suppose he managed that?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he had a private income. Like I said, I’m not privy to all the financial ins and outs in this place.”

  “Would you describe Mr Villiers as a trustworthy sort of man?”

  Johnson stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray.

  “I’m not sure I can say. I think to trust someone you’ve got to know them. And I never really knew Mr Villiers – not that well, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Mr Johnson. Now tell me, please, what happened on Saturday. What time did you leave here?”

  Johnson looked thoughtful.

  “Oh, that must have been sometime after half past seven, I think. I’d been working with Mr Villiers on some estimates for jobs we were bidding for. He said he had to visit someone down Plaistow way and asked if I’d drive him in the van, so of course I said yes. We set off, but then after a bit he said he’d changed his mind. I should drive to my place, then he’d drop me off and drive himself over to Plaistow and then home to Forest Gate.”

  “Where is your place?”

  “I live in Greengate Street, number 22. It’s a flat over a newsagent’s, just past the old tramways depot, where they keep the trolleybuses now.”

  “And do you know why Mr Villiers changed his mind?”

  “No. But then it’s not my place to ask the boss why.”

  “Do you know who he was visiting? Was it a customer?”

  “Don’t know, I’m afraid. He didn’t say. I’m not aware of any current customers down there, but as I said, that was more his side of the business.”

  “What time did he drop you off?”

  “I didn’t really notice, to be honest, but it must have been about twenty past eight. We’d been held up on the way, because one of the roads was blocked after the air raid, so I had to get out and walk the last bit. It would have been about ten minutes’ walk, and I remember the sirens went off again when I was nearly home. I looked at my watch and it said half past eight, so yes, I must have left him at about twenty past or so.”

  “And can you tell us where you were for the rest of the evening?”

  “Yes, that’s easy. When the sirens went off I was right by a friend’s place, so I stopped and took shelter there. He’s got an Anderson shelter and I haven’t. We took a bottle of Scotch down into the shelter and I spent the rest of the night there until the all-clear went.”

  Jago nodded thoughtfully.

  “Thank you. Just a couple more questions before I go, Mr Johnson.” He pulled a buff envelope from his pocket and carefully removed the knife he and Cradock had found in the van. “Do you recognize this?”

  “Yes,” said Johnson, “it’s an old printer’s knife. It’s got a special spike called a typesetting pick. If I’m not mistaken it’s the one Mr Villiers had. Not that he ever did any typesetting himself, of course, but I think he liked it because it suited the part, what with him having a printing business, and as far as I know he used to carry it with him all the time.”

  “Thank you. And finally, were you aware of any worries Mr Villiers might have had?”

  “No. Nothing he told me about, anyway.”

  “Do you think Mr Villiers was the kind of man who might take his own life?”

  Johnson paused for thought again.

  “I don’t know. He was a bit cagey about his private life. But on the other hand, with someone like him I think anything would be possible.”

  Jago and Cradock made their way back to Griggs’s shabby hut by the entrance to the yard. Griggs was sitting inside it, sipping tea from a chipped white mug.

  “Care for a cuppa?” he said.

  “Thank you, but no,” said Jago. “I’d just like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “What kind of man was Mr Villiers?”

  Griggs put on a thoughtful expression. “Well, he paid my wages, so he wasn’t all bad.”

  “A decent employer, then?”<
br />
  “I’d say so, yes. Bit posh, of course. I think he was a major or something in the war, obviously used to giving orders. Bit of a ladies’ man too, I reckon.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, he used to chase after some of the women who worked here. You know the sort of thing.”

  “Is that just hearsay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean is that just what people say, or did you actually see him do it?”

  “Yes, of course. Just the other night. Most people had gone home and the cleaner was here. I came round the corner and found him talking to her. But it wasn’t just like he was talking to her. It looked like he’d got her cornered and was standing really close, like. I could see she was trying to get away: she was pushing him with her hands. So I made a bit of a noise to show I was there, and he jumped off her like a scalded cat. I acted like I hadn’t seen anything, but I saw her slip away pretty quick, and she wouldn’t look up at me.”

  “Did you recognize her?”

  “Oh yes, straight off. It was that Mrs Carson. Irene Carson, she’s called.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jago strode briskly up West Ham Lane. Dignity required that he should walk, not run, but he was going to be late. He ran a finger round his collar to let some air in.

  Overhead, the afternoon sky was turning the same silver-grey as the barrage balloons that swayed placidly on their tethering cables in the faint breeze. There was rain coming.

  By the time he got to the police station it was five to three. He was hot and annoyed. He slipped in between the stacks of sandbags that flanked the front door and nodded a quick greeting to Tompkins. This wasn’t the time to get into conversation.

  He reached the CID office by two minutes to three. It was empty, and he leaned against the wall for a few moments to calm himself before the visitors arrived. He wondered what kind of man the American would be. Probably some suave Clark Gable type who would make him feel like an inadequate Englishman.

  The door opened and Soper ushered in the two visitors. Jago gave them a cursory glance as they entered, but to his surprise, the sight that greeted him did not remotely match his expectations. Not least because one of the two strangers was a woman.

  Before he could compose himself, the meeting was under way.

  “Allow me to introduce you,” said Soper. “Detective Inspector Jago, this is Mr A.J. Mitchell from the Ministry of Information, and this is Miss Dorothy Appleton, who is a journalist from the United States.”

  “Mr Jago,” said the woman, “how nice to meet you. You look a little surprised. Perhaps you weren’t expecting a woman?”

  “Not at all,” said Jago, still unsettled. “Do take a seat. And you too, Mr Mitchell.”

  “Actually I shan’t stay,” said Mitchell, airily. “I have matters to attend to, and if I might just have a word with you before I leave, Mr Soper, I shall then be on my way.”

  A minute later Jago was alone in the room with the reporter. He gave her a chair and sat behind the desk, facing her.

  “Miss, er, Miss Appleton,” he said, then hesitated. “It was Miss Appleton, wasn’t it, not Mrs? I’m afraid I didn’t entirely take in what Mr Soper said.”

  He could hear the awkwardness in his own voice. There was no ring on her left hand, but he realized he had no idea what the American practice was.

  “Yes, it’s Miss, Inspector. And I must apologize for what I said just now. There was no reason for me to suppose you weren’t expecting a woman.”

  “Well actually,” Jago began. “That is to say, I –”

  “Don’t worry about it. We tend to think of you British as being a little old-fashioned, but I’m sure you have women journalists here too. Maybe it’s just more common in the States. And I guess police work is still pretty much a man’s world over here, yes?”

  “Well, we do have some women police.”

  “Oh really? How many?”

  “In the Metropolitan Police, about a hundred and fifty, I believe.”

  “And how many men?”

  “About thirty-three thousand.”

  She paused.

  “So that’s about half a per cent, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do they do?”

  “They’re mainly responsible for looking after vulnerable women and children, that kind of thing.”

  “So no detectives, then?”

  “No.” Jago felt as though he were being cross-examined in court.

  “You know, five years ago my paper had me write a story about a woman in New York City who was our first female police detective. She’s a detective sergeant now, I believe.”

  “Well, perhaps things move a little more slowly over here.”

  “I guess so. It’s a good thing the same can’t be said of your fighter planes,” she said. Jago took it as a conciliatory remark and decided to try to change the subject.

  “So, Miss Appleton, what brings you here today?”

  “Well, as you know, I’m a journalist. I work for the Boston Post as a foreign correspondent, based here in London, and I’m covering the war from the British angle. I’m interested in how ordinary people are coping with it.”

  “I see. So you asked to meet some ordinary people and they came up with me?”

  She laughed.

  “Not at all, Inspector. I’m accredited to your Ministry of Information, of course, and some time ago I told them I’d like to write some pieces about public morale. I wanted to focus on the East End of London, because it’s where the poorer people are, the ones who were maybe having a rougher time of the rationing and what have you. And as it happens, of course, with these terrible air raids we’ve been having since Saturday, right now this is exactly where the story is.”

  “Glad we could oblige,” said Jago. “But where do I come into this?”

  “I just figured it would be good to have a contact who could explain life here to me, someone who knows everything that goes on in a place like West Ham. And a policeman is that kind of person.”

  “But why me?”

  She leaned closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

  “I’ll let you into a little secret,” she said. “I saw your picture in the newspaper. You’d been to Buckingham Palace to get some medal. The King’s Medal, was it?”

  “The King’s Police Medal.”

  “The paper said you’d disarmed a man with a gun, and I thought that was interesting. I didn’t know if I’d be able to write about my policeman, but I thought if I did, it would help if he were some kind of hero. So I made a note of your name, and when I went to the ministry I asked for you. Simple as that.”

  Jago considered her words for a moment and then stood.

  “Well, Miss Appleton, I’m under instructions to assist you, so assist you I shall. But I must make one thing clear: I am currently engaged in a suspected murder investigation and my time is limited, so if you think you can tag along with me as I go about my duties I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ll be happy to meet you when time allows, answer your questions and help you in any way I can, but you must understand that there are some difficult areas in this borough, and I’d advise you not to go running round everywhere without consulting me. On top of that, now we’ve got these air raids. Frankly, it’s no place for a –”

  He hesitated. She was looking him straight in the eye, both her eyebrows raised in an expression of innocent enquiry.

  “It’s no place for a person who’s a stranger to the area to be wandering round on their own.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I appreciate your concern and gladly accept your offer to escort me as and when the need arises. Now perhaps you could have someone call a cab for me and I’ll be on my way. I’ll leave you my card.”

  Jago felt outmanoeuvred and had the uncomfortable sense that she was making fun of him. He took the card, noting her address: the Savoy Hotel, Strand, London. Only the best for the Boston Post, he thought.

&
nbsp; He walked her back to the front desk and left Tompkins with the challenge of assisting her with her transport arrangements.

  On returning to his office, Jago sat at his desk and reflected briefly on their conversation. He wasn’t entirely convinced. Surely she could have found someone else to explain life in the East End to her. Why did she need a detective inspector? He knew from experience that journalists could be a devious bunch. She might see him as a useful contact, but he had a feeling she wasn’t telling him the whole story.

  CHAPTER 12

  “What really happened on Friday night, Sidney?”

  He could not bear to look at her. She clearly knew he was lying, and her voice was stern. He tried again.

  “It was an accident. There was nothing I could do about it. I’d been out for a drink with that old friend of mine, as I said, and I was on my way home. It was dark, and I couldn’t see a thing – you know what it’s like in the blackout. Suddenly a bike came round the corner, and the next thing I knew I was flying through the air and landing in the gutter. I don’t know how long I was lying there. I might even have been knocked out, I think, because it was so late when I got home.”

  His voice trailed off, and he forced himself to face her, hoping she wouldn’t ask any more questions. It seemed quite plausible to blame his cuts and bruises and the state of his clothes on a collision with a cyclist in the dark: everyone knew that blackout accidents had caused more injuries over the past year than enemy action. But beyond that point he was struggling to connect his story with the facts of the matter in a way that was even half convincing.

  “Who was the friend you were with?”

  “It was an old school friend. He’s called John.”

  She said nothing, but fixed him with a sceptical gaze.

  Inside he felt a mixture of guilt and fear. When have I ever mentioned old school friends before? She probably knows I don’t have any. She must think I was with another woman. She’ll be thinking I’m having an affair with someone, and her husband’s caught up with me.