by Laura Wilson
‘I’m sure she could do it while you’re wearing them, sir,’ said Jellicoe. ‘I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of our Miss Jenner yet, have you? Dab hand with a needle, she is.’
‘All right,’ said Stratton, with bad grace, ‘but fetch me a bottle of Dettol and some cotton wool first, will you? And if there’s any Elastoplast, I’ll have that too.’ He was damned if he was going to have Miss Jenner pawing at his bare leg as well as his trousers.
‘Yes, sir. And I’ll put a cup of tea on your desk. Don’t mind my saying so, sir, but you look as if you could do with one.’
*
Our Miss Jenner turned out to be sweet-faced, with dimples and a halo of fluffy blonde curls, and looked so young that Stratton thought she must be just out of school. He sat in a chair, drinking the tea that Jellicoe had provided for him, while she knelt beside his outstretched leg and, in total silence with her eyes very firmly on her work, executed a deft repair. Jellicoe, who, though sympathetic, was clearly enjoying his role in the drama, stood guard at the door, shooing away any potential gawpers. Leaning back in his chair, Stratton clasped a towel full of ice that Jellicoe had procured from the canteen’s refrigerator to his black eye. He’d just have to hope that Illingworth and the others had now been sent out to bring in Knight and his chums, and that the excitement generated by so doing – and, God willing, their subsequent arrests for Johnson’s killing by himself – would put paid to any fun at his expense and win him his spurs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
‘I ain’t done nothing.’ Stratton glanced at his watch – a quarter to six – then at PC Dobbs, who was leaning against the grimy wall of the interview room, arms folded, staring stonily ahead. Stratton couldn’t blame him. They’d had three hours of this, first with Mills, Baxter and Pearson – Knight and Halliwell were yet to be located – and now with Fred Larby, who, slouched in the chair on the other side of the table, had his hands in his trouser pockets and the cocksure look of one who has decided that he can afford to brazen things out. Like the others before him, he’d admitted to being in the General Smuts but nothing more. His story, like theirs, was that Halliwell had picked them up in the van – nobody seemed to know who it belonged to – and taken them to a party in St Ervan’s Road, off the Golborne Road, dropping Johnny Andrews on the way. None of them could remember the number of the house where the party was supposed to have taken place, nor the name of the person who gave it, each claiming that he was a friend of one of the others, but all of them had insisted, repeatedly, that they had remained there for the rest of the evening.
Leaving Larby to stare insolently at Dobbs, Stratton went to find the station sergeant and see how he was getting on with the witnesses. Matthews had been none too pleased about the idea of a series of hastily convened identity parades, but Matheson had agreed that Susie Marwood, Irene and – supposing they managed to track her down on Bayswater Road – Gloria could be brought in to see if they recognised anyone.
‘Not going too well, I’m afraid,’ said Matthews with grim satisfaction. ‘It’s obvious that Mrs M. doesn’t have a clue – she’s just picked out Illingworth.’
‘Who was she supposed to be picking?’
‘Baxter. Neither of the whores recognised him either.’
As Baxter was a nondescript-looking lad with absolutely nothing to distinguish him from anybody else, Stratton wasn’t particularly surprised by this. ‘So they’re both here, are they?’
Matthews nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve kept ’em separate, like you said. The redhead—’
‘Irene Palmer, you mean?’
‘That’s the one. Can’t have been on the game long, or we’d know her. We’ve had the other one in here more times than you’ve had hot dinners. She’s in the charge room with Miss Galloway, and the Palmer girl’s in there,’ he jerked his thumb at the door behind him, ‘with Miss Jenner. Can’t get a peep out of her – just keeps on shaking her head. The other one thinks she recognised Mills, but she won’t swear to it.’
‘What about Mrs Marwood?’
‘She dithered over Mills but she wasn’t sure either.’
Mills, Stratton recalled, was only fractionally more distinctive than Baxter. Being more filled out – or perhaps just more thickset – he might fit Irene’s description of being ‘a bit older than the others’. Also, he was the only one to be wearing a drape jacket, which was something else she’d mentioned. Maybe, Stratton thought, she’d recognised him but been too frightened to say so.
‘What about Pearson?’ he asked.
‘They’re bringing him up now.’ As he spoke, Tony Pearson appeared, escorted by Jellicoe. He had black hair done in what Irene had described as a ‘Tony Curtis’ style – although the resemblance ended there because the attempt at a fashionably sullen expression was undermined by the open mouth and adenoidal breathing. Thinking that this, at least, would be memorable, and recalling Larby’s chocolate-coloured mole positioned just above his upper lip, Stratton reassured himself that, although Susie Marwood had been too far away to pick up on either, Gloria – or possibly Irene – must have noticed them.
This brief flare of optimism was swiftly replaced by incredulity when a line of young constables appeared, dressed in hastily assembled mufti. A lot of it was, to say the least, seasonally unsuitable – Wellington boots, two flat caps and even an army greatcoat, while one sported a waistcoat decorated with a fob watch on a chain, and another a bowler hat. Clearly, someone had been raiding the station’s lost property box. ‘Hold it,’ said Stratton, incredulous. Taking Matthews aside, he asked, ‘Did the other line-ups look like this lot?’
‘It’s having to do it at the last minute, sir.’ Matthews sounded thoroughly unrepentant. ‘They can’t keep wearing the same things, and you’ve asked for four different lots with the same witnesses. Makes it very difficult.’
‘They look like something out of a pantomime. And for Christ’s sake tell me you haven’t been using the same people each time.’
Matthews gave him a reproachful look. ‘Couldn’t do that, sir – it wouldn’t be right.’
Noting that Illingworth, at least, was not among the gathered constables, Stratton said, ‘Well, that’s something, anyway.’ Motioning Jellicoe to take Pearson through to the yard, he went down the line, removed the caps, the bowler and – to the relief of its wearer, who looked ready to faint – the greatcoat. Several of them, he noticed, barely managed to conceal their grins at the sight of the bruise emerging around his eye. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s more like it.’
‘Are you going to come and have a look, sir?’
Stratton shook his head. ‘You get going, and then you can do another one for Larby. I’ll be in the office.’
*
After about half an hour Matthews appeared, looking disappointed. ‘Well?’ said Stratton.
‘Mrs Marwood’s prepared to identify Pearson, and the Lockwood girl identified both Pearson and Larby.’
‘Excellent,’ said Stratton. Matthews eyed him sourly. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. What about Miss Palmer?’
‘Same thing – shakes her head, won’t talk.’
‘Do you think she recognised anyone?’
‘Couldn’t say, sir,’ said Matthews blandly. ‘You’re not going to want any more people bringing in this afternoon, are you?’ He made it sound as if Stratton had thoughtlessly arranged a tea party.
‘No,’ said Stratton. ‘But I’d like a word with this lot of witnesses before they go.’
‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t realise. I’ve sent them home.’
‘Give me strength,’ muttered Stratton. ‘Separately, I hope.’
‘I made sure of it, sir,’ said Matthews virtuously.
‘That’s something to be grateful for, anyway.’ As Walker had said in the morning, Etheridge was bound to find out where Irene was, but not, he hoped, too soon – and Gloria would have been able to winkle it out of her in no time at all.
‘I take it you want to hang on to Mill
s and the rest of them, sir?’
‘Of course I do,’ snapped Stratton. ‘Anything on Knight or Halliwell yet?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Let me know as soon as there is, will you?’
‘Yes, sir. Now, if you don’t mind,’ Matthews assumed a martyred expression, ‘it’s not exactly quiet out there …’
Jellicoe appeared a moment later. ‘Which one do you want first, sir?’
‘Pearson, I think.’ At the initial interview, Pearson, whose answers had been laboured rather than pat, had struck him as the dullard of the group. He was also, at just seventeen, the youngest.
‘Right you are. How’s the eye, sir?’
‘Not too bad, thanks. Did you watch the line-ups?’
‘Yes, sir, all of them.’
‘Irene Palmer – the girl with the red hair – how did she seem?’
‘Frightened, sir. Shaking, she was. Eyes like saucers, and she never said a word. Tell you the truth, I felt quite sorry for her.’
‘Do you think she recognised anybody?’
‘Hard to tell, sir. She was sort of hiding behind her hair, and she’s barely given any of them a look before she’s started shaking her head, but it’s possible.’
‘Anyone in particular?’
‘Mills, perhaps. But I couldn’t be sure, sir.’
*
That would make sense, thought Stratton, as he followed Jellicoe to the interview room. Mills lived on the White City Estate, and Ronnie did sound a bit like Johnny or Tommy. Baxter, though, also lived on the estate. Pearson’s address was Bramley Road, same as Johnny Andrews, and Larby lived in the council flats on Portland Road, which, from what Stratton could remember of the area, was pretty close by …
*
Pearson’s breathing was now audible and stertorous – the product, Stratton hoped, of mounting anxiety. ‘Two of the witnesses identified you as being one of the men who attacked Clyde Johnson on Golborne Road,’ he said flatly. ‘You were there, chum. What have you got to say now?’
Pearson’s eyes darted round the room, as if searching for an escape route. ‘I never done it.’
‘But you were in Golborne Road.’
‘I never said that.’
‘No, you didn’t. But someone else – or rather, two someone elses – have said it. That’s two witnesses to the fact that you and the rest of your pals attacked Johnson in Golborne Road, and then there’s the fact that he’s dead and you killed him. They’ll probably go easy with you because you’re under eighteen but – unless, of course, you decide to cooperate, and provided I decide to put in a good word – you’ll be going down for a bloody long time, so you might as well forget about—’
‘It wasn’t me!’ Pearson’s face was now the colour of lemonade.
‘Who was it, then?’
‘I don’t know – I didn’t see.’
‘So you were there?’
‘Yeah, but I never done anything.’
‘Why couldn’t you see? Did you have your eyes shut?’
‘Course not.’
‘Well, then, you could see, couldn’t you? Don’t fuck about with me, son. I want to hear it from the beginning.’
‘Well, we was in the General Smuts.’
‘And who was there with you?’
‘Eddy, and then Ronnie, Gordon, Johnny and Fred. And Tommy Halliwell came to pick us up in the van, like I told you.’
‘Whose van was it?’
‘Dunno. I never seen it before. He must have had it off some bloke.’
‘Stolen it, you mean?’
‘I never said that. He could have borrowed it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why would he borrow it to pick you up?’
‘To take us to that party.’
Stratton sighed flamboyantly. ‘Don’t waste my time, son. We had all that about the party on the first go round, and I didn’t believe it then either.’
‘No.’ Pearson leant forward earnestly. ‘We was going to a party, but we never went.’
‘Why not?’
Now he looked confused. ‘We was talking in the pub, and Eddy was saying about his uncle – you know, how the niggers done him up – and he said we ought to even things up a bit.’
‘One of the witnesses in the pub overheard you saying …’ Stratton flicked through his notebook until he found the interview with O’Driscoll. ‘ “We’re going to go and find some niggers.” ’
‘Yes, but it weren’t my idea. I just went along with them. Eddy was saying about his uncle, and we was just talking – the usual … I don’t remember.’
‘Eddy said you should go off and kill a coloured man, did he?’
‘It weren’t like that. Just that we should, you know …’
‘Not until you tell me, I don’t.’
‘He meant we should go and get one. Give him a scare.’
‘Any particular one?’
Pearson looked nonplussed and shook his head.
‘So why did you pick up Johnson?’
‘I dunno, really. I mean, he was there, strutting along as if he owned the road, and we’d had some others slinging milk bottles at the van before, shouting at us an’ that.’
‘Who was sitting in the front with Halliwell?’
‘Fred and Ronnie.’
‘So you were at the back with Baxter?’
‘Yes, and Johnny Andrews, till we dropped him off.’
‘So you couldn’t see these people throwing milk bottles?’
‘No, but I could hear ’em all right.’
‘And you couldn’t see Johnson?’
‘Not till I got out, no.’
‘But you just said …’ Stratton motioned to Jellicoe, who was taking notes, and read out, “He was strutting along as if he owned the road.” ’
‘Yeah. Well, Ronnie said that.’
‘What did he say exactly?’
Pearson’s brow furrowed in thought. ‘He said, “Look at that black cunt, strutting along as if he owned the road.” ’
‘Then what happened?’
‘We all got out.’
‘Why didn’t Knight go with you?’
‘He had to meet a bloke.’
‘What bloke?’
‘Dunno. Just some bloke.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Just said he had to talk to him about something.’
‘Were you carrying a knife?’
Pearson shook his head. ‘Niggers carry knives.’
‘Well,’ Stratton sat back and folded his arms, ‘Clyde Johnson certainly didn’t stab himself, so one of you must have had one – unless you took it off him, of course.’
‘We never.’
‘I thought you said you couldn’t see what happened.’
‘No, but—’
‘But if you could see well enough to know that nobody took a knife from Johnson, you must have been able to see who it was that stabbed him.’
‘I didn’t. We all steamed into him and gave him a whacking, but I never saw any knife.’
‘Did Johnson have a knife on him?’
‘Not that I could see.’
‘Were you carrying a weapon?’ Holding up a forefinger to forestall Pearson, who was already shaking his head, Stratton added, ‘Remember, we have witnesses.’
‘There was bits of wood an’ that at the back of the van, so I took one of them.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Stratton. ‘What did the others have?’
‘I think Fred had some wood, and Millsie had a bit of iron.’
‘What about Baxter and Halliwell?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose they got something, too. Out of the van, I mean.’
‘Do you know who put the stuff in there?’
‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘What about the girls? Did you recognise them?’
‘Never seen them before.’
‘Somebody did, didn’t they?’ Pearson looked uncertain. ‘Come off it,’ Strat
ton continued. ‘You were chasing them, calling them names.’
‘Yeah, but …’ Pearson shrugged. ‘That was just because the others were doing it, you know. And they shouldn’t go with coloureds. It’s wrong isn’t it? You get a lot of half-castes running around.’
‘How do you know those girls go with coloureds?’
‘I told you, someone said. I don’t know who, because everyone was shouting – next minute we was all just running after the girls.’
‘Which way?’
‘Over the railway bridge, towards Portobello.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘One of them took a tumble, so we all stopped. That was just by the corner of Portobello Road.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. Someone said we should leave it, so we did.’
‘Do you know who said it?’
‘Millsie or Tommy, I think because they was right behind me. But,’ he added virtuously, ‘I’d never hit a woman, even if she was going with a nigger.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
By ten o’clock, Stratton had four statements that, to all intents and purposes, matched each other. Faced with a combination of threats, coercion and – as with Pearson – some slight distortion of the facts, first Larby, then Baxter and finally Mills had admitted to taking part in the attack on Johnson. PC Jellicoe, having wedged his bulk behind a typewriter in the office, was bashing out copies with two thudding fingers, and Stratton, exhausted, was inspecting the results. They’d got about halfway through when Sergeant Vokes, who’d replaced Curtis on the desk, appeared and handed him a slip of paper.
‘Telephone call from DS Matheson, sir. He says to give him a ring and let him know how it’s going.’
‘Where is he?’
‘At home, sir.’
‘Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes, sir. The number’s written down there. He said you’re to call him any time, sir.’
*
‘He always likes to be kept in the picture,’ said Jellicoe helpfully, when Vokes had departed.
‘Bit late, though.’ In all his years at West End Central, Stratton had never once telephoned DS Lamb at home and he had a strong suspicion that, had he done so, he’d have spent the remainder of his career on point duty. ‘You’re absolutely sure, are you?’