by Mike Hollow
“Permission granted,” said Jago, “but on one condition: that you never call me by my first name in the presence of Cradock or any other policeman, otherwise I shall become extremely grumpy again.”
Dorothy laughed.
“Just like that man who was on the front desk at your police station yesterday. Boy, was he grumpy. And I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying. It was like he was speaking in some kind of code.”
“You mean Frank Tompkins? He’s the station sergeant, and he’s what you might call an old-time copper, a local man. He’s seen it all.”
“Well, he’s certainly old. Don’t your policemen ever retire?”
“He did, two years ago. He just didn’t time it very well. The war started, the military reserves were called up, and even if they were police they had to go, so suddenly we had a shortage.”
“And Frank was the solution?”
“Yes, him and a few others. Last year the government brought all the old police pensioners back to plug the gaps. Just when poor old Frank was getting used to having a lie-in in the morning. He acts grumpy, but I think he’s loving it. If nothing else it means he gets paid three pounds a week on top of his pension, and I think his wife’s glad to get him out of the house again.”
“How long have you been a policeman?”
“Since 1919. Compared with Frank that makes me a new boy.”
“And before that?”
“Two years in the Army.”
“And before that?”
“You’ll probably laugh at this, but my first job when I left school was on the local paper, the Stratford Express. I wanted to be a reporter.”
“Aha, so that’s why you stopped shooting when I played the press card.”
“Yes, I’m afraid I couldn’t condemn you – you were simply being what I’d hoped I’d be one day. I just didn’t make it.”
“So what happened to your career in journalism?”
“The Great War happened, that’s what. After a couple of years with the paper I was called up and sent off to France. By the time I got out of the Army there were no jobs going in that line and I needed to earn a living. Besides, the world had changed, and so had I. Looking back now, I think I needed to find something that had structure and discipline in it, and maybe I had the notion of doing something that was about making life safer for people. I suppose it was a reaction to everything I’d seen in France, all that chaos and destruction. On top of that, they were recruiting for the police. I tried it and discovered I liked it, and here I am, still a policeman.”
“Yesterday, today, and for ever.”
“That’s about it. I don’t suppose I’ll ever be a journalist now, but I learned some useful things. There was an old sub there who taught me how to write a news story properly. It’s come in surprisingly useful ever since. You know, that stuff that Kipling said about his honest serving men, the questions you’ve got to answer in a story – what, why, when, how, where, and who. I expect you know all that.”
“My stock in trade, exactly.”
“But those are the kind of questions I have to ask as a detective too. And I’ve added another one of my own: what if? When you don’t know who’s done what and you need to get to the bottom of it, that’s a very important question to ask. I expect if he’d been a policeman instead of a writer he’d have worked that out for himself.”
“So you’ve put the world of newspapers far behind you.”
“Yes, but I still read the paper every day, and sometimes I wonder what might have been.”
“Well, now you have an opportunity to see a foreign correspondent in action.”
“Yes, and that reminds me: I wondered if I could take you down to the docks, to see some of the places that have been bombed.”
“I’m quite capable of going by myself, you know.”
“Yes, but to tell you the truth, my boss has asked me to show you round a bit. I think he reckons it would be good for the war effort.”
“In that case, how can I refuse? When were you thinking of?”
“Would tomorrow afternoon suit you?”
“Yes, that will suit me fine. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Now, what would you like to eat, John?”
CHAPTER 18
Billy spotted Rob weaving his way back towards him through a mass of busy drinkers in the dimly lit public bar at the Huntingdon Arms, a dimpled pint glass of beer in each hand and a cigarette drooping from his lip. The air was heavy with the stink of stale beer, cheap cigarettes, and sweat. Rob was making slow progress: he seemed to know everyone in the pub, and was still looking back over one shoulder and exchanging raucous greetings with a man Billy didn’t know as he arrived at their small round table.
“There you are,” said his brother. “Get that down you. It’ll make you feel better. A little of what you fancy does you good, eh?”
Rob laughed and sat down. He nipped the remaining half of his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and placed it as carefully as he could on the rim of the ashtray, which was already brimming with ash and crushed fag-ends.
“Are you sure it’s all right?” said Billy, looking at the beer mug in front of him. “Supposing someone reports me? What if a copper comes in and catches me drinking under age?”
Rob laughed again. “Don’t worry so much, Billy. For starters, there’s not a man in this place would shop anyone to the boys in blue, even if it was Adolf Hitler himself stopping by for a half of mild before closing time. And for another thing, no copper’s going to come in here unless he’s got the troops out and waiting round the corner. They’ve had enough cracked heads in the past to know where they’re not welcome. Besides, the local bobby’ll be round after closing time for a couple of drinks on the house, if you know what I mean, and everything’ll be all sweetness and light. That and his bottle of Scotch come Christmas time keeps everyone happy.”
Billy felt reassured. Rob seemed to know so much that he didn’t know. It was like the good old days, when they were kids: Rob would look after him.
“If you say so,” he said. “And thanks for this.” He picked up the mug of beer to sip it. It was heavy in his hand, and he didn’t want to spill any in front of Rob.
“Not like that,” said Rob. “Only girls hold it by the handle. You want to do it like this.” He slipped his four fingers through the handle and gripped the side of the mug in his palm, steadying it with his thumb. He raised the glass towards Billy. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Billy.
Rob took several gulps of beer, set his glass back on the table and spread himself back into his chair. He gazed round the bar as if he owned it.
“That’s more like it.”
Billy looked round too. He wasn’t used to pubs yet. He knew his mum didn’t want him to spend time in places like that, but then as Rob said, that was probably just because she wanted him to stay her little boy. He was getting to be a man now, and a working man deserved his pint. Billy still wasn’t sure whether he liked the place as much as Rob seemed to, though. He wouldn’t fancy being there if any trouble broke out, he thought. Some of the men looked as though they’d punch you in the face as soon as look you in the eye. Even the bitter taste of the ale was something he was still getting used to. He wondered whether this was typical of the pubs around the docks, or whether it was just one that Rob particularly liked. There were certainly plenty to choose from.
“Cheer up, Billy,” said Rob. “You’ve got a face like a wet weekend. What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Mum,” said Billy. “I’m worried about her. Ever since Dad –”
His voice broke off. He still found it difficult to say the word.
“Died, Billy. Since Dad died,” said Rob. “You’ve got to face it, Billy, and so has she.”
“But she’s changed. It’s like she’s died too. She’s not the same; she’s not Mum any more.”
“She needs time, Billy.”
“But it’s not fair. What’s she ever done to deser
ve all that?”
“Nothing’s fair, Billy. The whole world’s in a mess. It’ll never change until the workers are in control. Till then, the class struggle goes on.”
“The what?”
“It’s a war, Billy. Not this war with Germany: that’s just the death throes of imperialism. I mean the war between the working class and the ruling class. You can’t be on both sides, Billy. There’s only one side for people like us, and that’s the workers. You’ve seen what it’s like, haven’t you? The people who run the world, they’re not workers; they’re born into the ruling class and they own everything. Even that Churchill: calls himself a mister, but his dad was a lord and his grandad was a duke or something. Talk about born with a silver spoon in your mouth. People like Mum and Dad are just victims of the capitalist ruling class. You and me too. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, and that’s how it’ll stay until the workers own the means of production.”
“The what?” said Billy again. He didn’t know whether it was the beer or Rob that was making him feel baffled.
“Billy, don’t you know anything? Who owns all the factories? Who owns these docks? Who owns your shop? It’s the rich, isn’t it? You might get a few quid a week for working at Sainsbury’s, but who gets all the profits? Mr Sainsbury, of course. With all the shops he’s got, he’s stinking rich. You won’t find him dropping in for a pint in a place like this, nor doing an honest day’s work for that matter. He’s probably been out all day shooting birds on his country estate or something. And where did he get those shops from? Did he earn them? No: he got them from his dad, and from his dad before him.”
“But it’s good working for Sainsbury’s. They treat us well. It’s not like the old days – we get pensions, and we get paid when we’re off sick. It’s much better than ordinary shops.”
“Yes, but that’s just it, isn’t it? They improve your working conditions a bit from time to time, but that’s just to keep you quiet, so you won’t rise up. That’s the trouble with the Labour Party.”
“But I thought they were good. Mum and Dad said they’ve always voted Labour.”
“Labour’s no good. They’re never going to change things properly. They’re like you: they think all we need to do is get better terms and conditions for the workers. They’re never going to get rid of the ruling class. Only the Communist Party can do that. Labour are just bourgeois, like all the other parties.”
Another word Billy had never heard before. His head was beginning to spin. Rob might just as well be speaking Chinese.
“So when’s all this going to happen, Rob?” He was surprised at the way his own voice sounded. He was finding it difficult to get his words out straight.
“You’ll see,” said Rob, leaning forward over his half-empty beer mug and lowering his voice. “We’re going to make them sit up. You stick with me, Billy, and we’ll make a bit of history.”
CHAPTER 19
The Wednesday morning sky was agreeably free of planes and cloud, and Jago was pleased to be back on his home ground. Dining at the Savoy had been an interesting experience, but he had come away thinking he’d be just as happy in Cooke’s pie and mash shop in Stratford High Street any day. He wondered what Miss Appleton would make of jellied eels. He was still wary of calling her Dorothy, even in his own mind. She seemed happy enough to be on first name terms, but then she was American. To him it felt rather forward, and he had a lingering apprehension that getting too friendly with a woman could lead to misunderstandings – something he could do without at his time of life.
A meeting with Cradock was a simpler prospect, and the man’s open face promised an uncomplicated conversation. In some ways the constable was like a puppy, thought Jago. Willing and enthusiastic, but just needing to be taken in hand and trained.
“Good meal, guv’nor?” said Cradock. He had come in to the station early this morning, to be sure of arriving before Jago.
“Very acceptable, thank you, but I’m glad I wasn’t paying,” said Jago. “If nothing else it confirmed one thing: even when there are bombs falling out of the sky every night, the butter on your bread is rationed and we could be invaded at any moment, you can still get whatever you like in this city if you’ve got enough money. Now, tell me what you managed to achieve while I was out dining with the high and mighty.”
“Well, I found that Gray character at home. He was a bit the worse for wear, if you know what I mean, and his flat was a tip. You could smell the drink on his breath, and his clothes looked like they’d been slept in. All in all, I came away thinking the idea of him and Johnson polishing off a bottle of Scotch in his shelter on Saturday night is quite plausible.”
“So he confirmed Johnson was with him?”
“Yes, he said they were together in the shelter between the times Johnson gave us.”
“Well done. So that takes Johnson out of the picture for the time of death, even if it sounds as though Gray might leave something to be desired as a witness. What about the court: did you find out anything interesting?”
“I did. It seems Robert Carson appeared before Mr Villiers at Stratford magistrates’ court in January. He’d thrown a punch at a supervisor at work and was charged with assault. He was found guilty and fined five pounds, but was lucky not to get sent down for two months. Apparently he lost his job as a result.”
“Interesting. So what do you make of that?” said Jago.
“Well, it means Carson might have had a grudge against him. But surely not enough to want to kill him?”
“I agree. But on the other hand, why did he lie to us about knowing Villiers?”
“There must have been a reason,” said Cradock, “but I’m blowed if I know what it was. Would a man like him forget the name of the magistrate who’d nearly put him away? Maybe there was something else going on between him and Villiers that meant he didn’t want to let on. Or maybe he was just scared when we came round and it was the first thing that came into his head. How about you, sir: did you find out anything useful at Villiers’ place?”
“Yes and no. Young Edward Villiers wasn’t much help. He seemed to think his father might have been doing some shady deals on the side, but he didn’t have any evidence. There may be something in what he says, but on the other hand the dead can’t defend themselves. If Edward is mixed up in something that’s not above board himself, it would be in his interests to set us off chasing hares in the wrong direction.”
Jago got up and walked round the room. He didn’t want to be chasing hares. He didn’t like other people trying to influence the course of his investigation. It would take a smarter man than Edward Villiers to put ideas into his head.
“I had more luck with Johnson,” he continued. “It was strange, really. When I challenged his account of what happened on Saturday night he seemed to cave in very quickly and admitted he did go to those premises in Plaistow. And yet all I could throw at him was the fact that he was tall and the witness’s statement would suggest it was him in the van with Villiers. I was on very thin ice, but he admitted he’d been spinning me a yarn immediately. It was almost too easy.”
“Maybe it was a guilty conscience,” said Cradock. “Maybe he was expecting to be found out, and as soon as you challenged his account he thought you’d rumbled him. He seemed quite a straightforward fellow.”
“He did, didn’t he? But even so I don’t trust him. He keeps changing his tune, and I still think there’s something he’s not telling us. He said the reason why he didn’t want to own up to being there was that he thought there was something fishy going on. He didn’t want to get mixed up in it. I asked him who the place belonged to, and he said he didn’t know. If nothing else, all this bears out what Edward said: Mr Charles Villiers JP seems to have had another side to his life. And here’s another thing: Johnson said he reckoned Villiers was delivering something to Cooper, although he didn’t know what it was.”
Cradock interrupted him.
“That’s interesting, guv’nor. I asked Cooper if Vi
lliers was delivering something, and he said no.”
“One of them’s lying, then,” said Jago. “I’m inclined to think Cooper’s a bigger liar than Johnson is, and if I’m right, it suggests Villiers wasn’t visiting Cooper for a simple chat. Johnson can’t or won’t tell us what Villiers was up to, nor can Edward, but somebody can, and I’m beginning to think the finger’s pointing at our Mr Cooper. What did he have to say for himself?”
Cradock turned to the page in his notebook where he’d written Cooper’s address.
“I found him at home eventually,” he said. “He lives in Barking Road, not far away from his place where he met Villiers. Nice house, but he’s a nasty piece of work. Sarcastic, cocky – trying to put me in my place, and no mistake.”
“I hope you didn’t rise to the bait.”
“No, sir.”
“Good lad. Carry on.”
“Thank you, sir. Cooper’s a trader – says he sells clothes in Queen’s Road Market. First of all he denied knowing Villiers, but when I pressed him he said Villiers had come to see him about a print job. Business stationery. He says Villiers left on his own in his van at about a quarter to nine.”
“So,” said Jago, “he was probably the last person to see Villiers alive.”
“Yes, I told him that.”
“Do you think Cooper could have killed Villiers?”
“I only had a short time with him, but I got the impression he wouldn’t stop short of anything if someone got in his way. He certainly had the opportunity. He doesn’t have anyone who can confirm he stayed behind when Villiers left. He could’ve gone with him in the van, or even followed him down the road: the van was only round the corner when we found it.”
“So he’s got the opportunity but no alibi, and he could easily have had the means, but did he have a motive?” said Jago. “Why would he want to kill Villiers?”
Cradock paused, trying to get his thoughts into order.
“That’s what I can’t work out, sir. Cooper definitely seems to be a dodgy character, and I wouldn’t be surprised if half the stuff in his store turned out to be nicked. You wouldn’t expect Villiers to be up to no good with his sort, what with Villiers being a JP and all, but perhaps he was, and perhaps they fell out over something. After all, young Edward and Johnson have both let on that Villiers was involved in some funny business.”