by Laura Wilson
‘… And you could show her the ropes,’ supplied Stratton.
‘I never said that.’ Gloria sounded indignant. ‘Irene’s not, you know …’
‘… On the game?’
‘No, she ain’t.’
She ain’t yet was more like it, Stratton thought. He imagined Etheridge telling Ding-Dong to tell Gloria to persuade Irene that they needed money and that the whole thing was a piece of cake and she’d be stupid not to when it was so simple … And of course she might be more persuadable if she didn’t have the sordid reality of the Bayswater Road right under her nose – hence the choice of venue. He wondered what lie Etheridge had told Irene to explain both Gloria and why she had to pretend to be Johnson’s girl. It must have been a pretty good one because, judging from Irene’s reaction when he’d mentioned Etheridge, she’d believed it. But then again, she didn’t have anywhere else to go, did she?
‘What time did you leave the restaurant?’
‘Half past eight, near enough, then we walked down the road a little bit, and that’s when we saw the boys.’
‘How far down the road?’
‘About half the parade. Astley’s is right at the end, away from the bridge.’
‘And you were walking towards it, were you?’
‘Yes. We’d passed about seven or eight shops, and they was all outside a shop with green paint. I don’t know what shop it was because there was shutters over the window.’
‘What were they doing?’
‘Well, at first it looked like they was just talking, so I didn’t think nothing of it, but then they started having a go at Ding-Dong. Not that we knew it was Ding-Dong, not at first.’
‘When did you realise?’
‘When I saw the suit. It’s got these thick red stripes, sort of shiny. You never saw anything like it. Told me his aunt made it for him.’ Gloria’s face brightened momentarily, then fell. ‘He was ever so proud of it – used to get the dead needle with me when I told him she must be colour-blind. I mean,’ she added, forlornly, ‘he looked like a bleeding deckchair.’
‘What was he doing there, do you know?’
‘Dunno. Free country, ain’t it?’
‘Not meeting you? I’d say that’s the most likely explanation. Going to give the new girl a masterclass in rolling, were you?’
‘No, we weren’t. We was going to have a drink, if you want the truth.’
‘With Ding-Dong?’
‘No! Look, he might have decided to come up and meet us, I don’t know. He was just there.’
‘Just dropped out of the sky, I suppose,’ said Stratton. ‘Did you see any weapons?’
‘One bloke had a bit of wood, like a chair leg or something, and I saw a flash of something that could have been a knife, but I wouldn’t swear to it because it all happened so quick, and then we were legging it.’
‘Why did you run?’
‘Because we thought we’d be next. When they saw us, they started yelling about us being black men’s whores and a lot more like that, so I ran for it and so did Irene. I thought she was behind me, but when I stopped she wasn’t there.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Outside the station – Ladbroke Grove. There was people about, so I thought I’d be safe … The blokes weren’t there, and neither was Irene.’
‘Did you go back to see if she was all right?’
‘I couldn’t, could I? They was going to do me.’
‘Did you recognise any of the men?’
‘No.’ This was swift, decisive and, Stratton surprised himself by thinking, truthful.
‘But they knew who you were.’
Gloria shrugged again. ‘Maybe they’ve seen me around.’
‘Would you be able to identify any of them if you saw them again?’
‘Dunno. I could give it a try, I suppose. You should ask Irene.’
‘Does she know them?’
‘Dunno that either. But she recognised one of them.’
‘How do you know?’
‘She was walking along beside me, and when we got close she suddenly stopped. Then she said something – a name. It sounded like Johnny or Tommy, but I’m not sure because just when she said it one of them turns round and sees us and starts shouting.’
‘Why didn’t you call the police?’
‘What, go into a call box so they could catch us?’
‘Afterwards.’
‘I was scared, wasn’t I?’
‘Did you see anyone chasing them?’
‘What, after the ones that were chasing us?’ Gloria looked at him as though he was mad. ‘I was running, all right? I wasn’t going to turn round and have a look, was I?’ Dropping what was left of her cigarette on the concrete floor, she ground it out with one pointy-toed shoe. ‘Happy now?’
‘Yes, thanks. Now, if I could just have a word with Mr Etheridge in private …’ He stood back to indicate that Gloria should leave. ‘I shan’t keep him for more than a minute.’
Through the window, Stratton watched Gloria’s backside, clad in a tight-fitting black skirt, wiggle as she climbed up the steps to the pavement. Etheridge caught him looking, and the two men stared at each other in a second’s uncomfortable complicity before Stratton said, ‘Was she talking about the same Irene Palmer who lives with you at number 12 Powis Terrace?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gloria said she said a name – Johnny or Tommy. Do you know who that could be?’
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you curious?’
‘Her business.’
‘I see. Just out of interest, when were you going to tell Gloria and Irene about each other? Or were you planning to let them work it out for themselves and hope they got used to it?’
‘You know how it is, man.’ Etheridge shrugged. ‘You run around, keep them sweet, and Gloria …’ He shook his head, looking every inch the henpecked husband. ‘She always shouting for something.’
That, thought Stratton, was the truly strange thing about the ponce/whore relationship. True, Etheridge could bash Gloria if she didn’t bring home enough money, but she was the one who earned it, so he was dependent on her just as much as any housewife depended on her husband. Etheridge might be exploiting what limited opportunities he had to hand, but underneath the flashy clothes and the bravado he was powerless.
At the door, Stratton gestured at the crates of empties. ‘If you don’t have a licence, you’d better get those out of sight sharpish,’ he said.
Etheridge looked at him, surprised. ‘Thanks, man.’
Stratton nodded curtly and went up the steps to the pavement. Gloria was waiting at the top, lounging against the railings, cigarette between her lips. Her habitual pose, Stratton thought. She couldn’t help looking as though she was touting for business. Four or five years ago, she’d probably been just like Irene. Stratton could easily guess at the combination of circumstances that had delivered her – and was in the process of delivering Irene – to Etheridge. It would be drearily familiar from hundreds of stories just like it told by girls who’d ended up on the streets.
Jenny’s voice came to him so clearly that he jumped: You can’t be responsible for the world, Ted.
‘You all right?’ Gloria was looking at him curiously.
‘Fine, thanks.’ Jerking his head towards the basement steps, he added, ‘Get on with you.’
‘Oh, ta very much,’ said Gloria sarcastically, and, straightening up with a blatant wiggle, she click-clacked back downstairs to Etheridge.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Watching Gloria descend the steps, Stratton found himself, for about the fiftieth time that day, thinking about Fenella. It wasn’t in any particular way – well, not if you didn’t count imagining what she might look like naked – but it seemed to be colouring all his thoughts. That morning, on his way to work, he’d even found himself looking at the cartoons page in the Daily Express and wondering if George and Gaye Gambol ever had sex. It was, he’d decided, unlikely – for one thing they sle
pt in separate beds, and for another, the only time George ever seemed to touch Gaye was to help zip up her frock.
Telling himself that it was hardly likely to come to that – in all probability Fenella had only accepted his invitation to dinner because she couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse – he drove back to Powis Terrace. He’d definitely have to wait until this evening before he telephoned her, in any case. He certainly wasn’t going to do it from the station, where anyone could walk in on him, and a public call box seemed too exposed, somehow. Besides which, you could never be sure that some idiot wouldn’t start banging on the glass and telling you to hurry up.
As he skirted the unwashed milk bottles and ersatz cooking equipment on the landing, Stratton heard yelps of laughter coming from Irene and Etheridge’s room. The noise stopped abruptly when he banged on the door and called, ‘DI Stratton – can I come in?’
Walker answered the door, a pot of glue in his hand. Behind him, Irene was sitting on the remaining chair, holding two pieces of the smashed one in an improvised vice. There were more glued pieces lying on the small table. ‘You’ll have a job with that,’ said Stratton.
‘I can do it,’ said Walker. ‘My dad was a carpenter. I used to help him in his shop.’ He looked serious, but Stratton could tell that he’d been enjoying the work, much as he himself did when faced with a tricky practical task – not to mention having the opportunity to impress a pretty girl by the doing of it. By the sound of it, Irene was enjoying herself too – or rather, she had been. Now she looked fearful.
‘Need a hand?’
Walker shook his head. ‘We have to wait for the glue to set before I can do anything else.’
‘Well,’ said Stratton, ‘perhaps I could have a word with your assistant here while it does.’
‘You want me to go?’ Walker cast an anxious look at Irene, who was wide-eyed and seemed ready to bolt from the room.
‘That’s up to Irene,’ said Stratton.
Her eyes flitted from Stratton to Walker and back again. ‘I’d like him to stay.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Stratton. ‘Why don’t you give that –’ he indicated the pieces of wood she was holding – ‘to Mr Walker.’
Irene stared at them for a second, as if she’d forgotten what they were, then handed them over, careful not to disturb the join. Walker took them and retreated a few paces, his discomfort obvious. He already knows what I’m about to say, Stratton thought, or he’s guessed.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I need to ask you again about where you were when Mr Johnson was attacked in Golborne Road.’ Irene opened her mouth, but he held up a hand. ‘You told Mr Laskier that you’d gone out for a walk, and you told both of us that you’d fallen over and hurt yourself, but that wasn’t true, was it? I’ve just been speaking to a friend of yours called Gloria, and she says that the two of you were in Golborne Road at the time Mr Johnson was attacked, and that you recognised one of the men who assaulted him.’
‘If she says that, she’s lying!’ Irene burst out fiercely. ‘She’s always trying to make trouble. Clinton said—’ She stopped as abruptly as she’d started, and looked up at Stratton in confusion.
‘Mr Etheridge was present when Gloria spoke to me,’ said Stratton gently. ‘He seemed to think she was telling the truth.’
Irene gazed at him in bewilderment.
‘They told you not to say anything, didn’t they? It’s all right,’ he added, seeing the alarm in her eyes. ‘I’m not asking you to tell tales, but I do need to know what happened. After all,’ he added, ‘we can’t just let people go about attacking each other and getting away with it, can we?’
Stratton had the impression that Walker, who was standing slightly behind him, wanted to say something, and, turning his head, saw that he was gazing at Irene intently. ‘I’m sure Mr Walker would agree with me,’ he said firmly.
‘I …’ Irene didn’t look directly at Stratton. Her gaze hovering somewhere between the two men’s shoulders, she cleared her throat and said, ‘I was there. With Gloria. When it happened, I mean.’
‘The men attacking Mr Johnson knew you, didn’t they? Gloria said they called you names.’
‘Well, I don’t know about her, but I’ve never seen them before. They were shouting at us, though. I don’t know what it was – I was just trying to get away. We both were.’
‘And your injury? How did that happen?’
‘I tripped, and one of them grabbed me from behind and then I felt a pain in my arm and there was blood. I was on the ground and they were all round me, and I couldn’t see what was going on, but then one of them said “Leave it” and they ran off.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Near the corner of Golborne Road, I think. I mean, I wasn’t thinking about where I was going – just to get away in case they changed their minds, but my arm was hurting … I couldn’t see Gloria anywhere, and I didn’t know what to do. Then Mr Laskier came and asked me if I was all right, and I just told him the first thing I could think of.’
‘Did you see anyone chasing the men?’
Irene looked bewildered. ‘Chasing them? No.’
‘Can you describe any of them?’
‘Not really. They were just, you know, ordinary. Not old, but …’
‘Older than you?’
‘A bit, I think. Most of them.’ Irene frowned, trying to remember. ‘A couple of them had the Tony Curtis hairstyle, with a quiff, and one of them – I think he was a bit older than the others – had a drape jacket. You know, long, like a Teddy boy. Some of them had trousers, but a couple had jeans … I can’t think of anything else.’
‘What about their faces?’ asked Stratton. ‘Did you notice anything particular?’
Irene shook her head. ‘I only noticed the legs and feet because I was on the ground. They just looked the same as lots of people, really. And,’ she added, thoughtfully, ‘when people are angry and shouting like that, they don’t look like themselves, do they? They look like animals.’
Struck by this, Stratton said, ‘But you don’t know what they looked like when they weren’t angry, do you? Unless you did recognise them, of course.’
‘No.’ Irene shook her head emphatically. ‘Honest, I didn’t.’
‘Gloria said you mentioned a name – Johnny or Tommy.’
‘I never!’ Irene leant forward. ‘I told you, she’s lying.’
‘But she wasn’t lying about the pair of you being in Golborne Road, was she?’ said Stratton gently. ‘And – until just now – you were.’
‘Yes.’ Irene shifted uncomfortably, not looking him in the eye. ‘But I didn’t know who they were.’
‘So why would Gloria say you did?’
‘She wants to make trouble!’ Irene’s eyes blazed. ‘She doesn’t like me. It’s all, “I’ll be your friend, Irene. I’ll help you.” At first I thought she meant it and it was nice to have a friend because I didn’t hardly know anyone, but then I found out it was all put on.’
‘Why do you think she’s putting it on?’
‘Because of Clinton, of course.’ Irene’s tone was that of a child explaining some piece of playground lore to a kindly but uncomprehending adult. ‘That’s why I had to pretend I was Ding-Dong’s girlfriend.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton. ‘Why don’t you spell it out for me, love?’
Irene sighed. ‘When Clinton first came to London he didn’t know anybody. He said Gloria was one of the few people who was friendly – helped him find a room and all that – but the problem was that she was, you know … stuck on him, and he didn’t feel the same about her. She’d get jealous if he took other girls out, and he didn’t want to upset her because she’d been nice to him, so he said to me to pretend to be Ding-Dong’s girl and then she wouldn’t get the needle.’ All this was said with total sincerity, but she must have seen something on the listeners’ faces, because she said, in a hurt voice, ‘You do believe me, don’t you?’
Ignoring this – and deliberately n
ot looking at Walker – Stratton asked, ‘Does Gloria know you live here?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t that a bit difficult? I mean, if she comes to visit?’
‘She doesn’t know Clinton lives here. He tells her he moves around – staying with friends and that.’
‘And she believes him?’
‘I suppose so. She never said she didn’t.’
‘I see,’ said Stratton. ‘So when you were in Golborne Road and you said the name Johnny or Tommy, that was …?’
‘I didn’t say anything! Well, I might have done, because I was that scared I don’t remember what I said, but I don’t know who those men were.’
‘You’re sure about that, are you?’
‘Yes! I’ve never seen them before.’ She stared at him as if willing him to believe her. ‘And I didn’t even realise it was Ding-Dong until we heard about it later. I told you, Gloria’s making it up because she’s jealous of any woman that Clinton even looks at, and …’ She faltered, frowning, as if something had just occurred to her, then said, ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’ asked Stratton, who hadn’t realised he was looking like anything.
‘Both of you.’ Irene had shrunk back in her chair, arms rigid at her sides, hands grasping the seat on either side of her thighs. She looked unbearably young and vulnerable. ‘Like you’re sorry for me. Well,’ she added, like a truculent child, ‘you needn’t be, because I can look after myself.’
‘I don’t think that’s entirely true, is it?’
‘Well, I’ve got Clinton to look after me.’
For the first time, Walker spoke. ‘No, Irene. You haven’t. Clinton Etheridge is only interested in looking after himself.’ Glancing at him, Stratton saw that his face showed no anger, only compassion.
‘You ought to be on his side,’ Irene retorted fiercely.
‘Whether you believe it or not,’ said Walker softly, ‘I’m on your side, Irene.’
‘Then you must be on his, too,’ said Irene. ‘Because he loves me. This man was trying to make me go to a club with him – we were in a cafe, arguing about it – but Clinton wouldn’t let him. He just appeared out of nowhere and told the man to leave me alone. I had no money or anything, and he was so kind to me … He didn’t try to, you know … He brought me back here and said I could stay as long as I want.’