by Laura Wilson
Rutherford paced again, pausing to pick up the second smouldering cigarette and light a third from it before dropping it back into the ashtray. ‘I went to see a friend.’ He made a little-boy-caught-out face – clearly a practised look which Stratton imagined had served him well in the past. At the moment, however, it made him look grotesquely shifty. ‘I shouldn’t have, but …’ Seeming to register that a policeman wasn’t quite the right recipient for his contrite charm, he shifted abruptly into an ingratiating man-to-man tone. ‘Look, if you want the truth, I was bloody angry. I went to see April because I thought she’d calm me down.’
‘Who’s April?’
‘April Scott. Lives at Bryanston Mews in Marylebone.’
‘How did you get there?’
‘I drove.’
‘Is Miss Scott a close friend, sir?’
Rutherford ran a hand through his hair. ‘No point disguising it, I suppose. I’ve known her – that is, I’ve been seeing her – for a few months.’
‘Can I ask if Mrs Rutherford was aware of this arrangement?’
‘Virginia? I’ve no idea. It would have been extremely poor form to draw her attention to it.’
You mean, thought Stratton, that as long as you didn’t rub her nose in the fact that you’ve got a mistress, you were doing the decent thing. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said blandly, ‘but I don’t quite understand.’ Rutherford’s expression told him that this was only to be expected from one of his class. ‘Are you saying that she was ignorant of Miss Scott’s existence, or that she was indifferent to it?’
‘I have no idea,’ Rutherford repeated. ‘I’ve told you, the matter was never discussed. My relations with my wife were perfectly cordial, Inspector. Now, if that’s all, she has just died, and—’
‘Not quite, sir. How long did you spend with Miss Scott?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘One hour? Two?’
‘A couple of hours, I suppose. The house was dark when I came back.’
‘And the staff? How many do you have?’
‘Housekeeper lives upstairs, and she’d gone to bed. The chauffeur had the night off – he doesn’t live on the premises – and there’s a woman who comes in.’
‘Names?’
‘The housekeeper is Mrs Boyce, and the chauffeur’s name is Logan. I don’t know the name of the woman who does.’
‘Right.’ Stratton jotted this down. ‘And what did you do when you got home?’
‘Checked to see if Virginia was back – which, obviously, she wasn’t, so I thought I’d wait up for her. I came in here and had a drink.’
‘And you’ve been here ever since, have you?’
‘Yes. The television was finished, so …’ Rutherford shrugged. ‘I had another drink, and … Well, I was waiting.’
Stratton made a mental note to check the television schedules. The epilogue, he thought, went off air at around midnight. Aloud, he said, ‘That’s fine, sir. We will, however, need to speak to Miss Scott, so if you could give me the details …’
Rutherford did so with bad grace, adding, ‘I assume you’ll be discreet about this.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ Stratton assumed an expression of compliant obsequiousness, ‘but in the circumstances there will have to be a public inquest, and while I understand your wish to keep certain matters private, it may not be possible … You may,’ he added, getting to his feet, ‘wish to have a quiet word with members of Mrs Rutherford’s family.’ That’s one in the eye for you, sunshine, he thought as he held out his hand. Rutherford took it for barely a second before dropping it. ‘I think that’s everything – for the moment, at least.’
Rutherford sank onto the sofa. ‘You can see yourself out, can’t you?’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
‘Look at that.’ PC Illingworth, who was drinking tea and looking through a pile of newspapers with a couple of the other young coppers, held up the News of the World. Most of the front page was taken up with two photographs. One showed a horrified housewife frozen in mid-scream as policemen struggled to bundle two young men into a Black Maria. In the other a wounded policeman, clutching his face, was being supported by two of his colleagues while an elegantly dressed young woman looked on. Stratton wondered if she’d been at the party. He’d bought a copy of the Sunday Express on the way into work, but seen no direct reference either to the party or to Mrs Rutherford. This, he supposed, was something to be thankful for – provided, of course, that the other papers hadn’t mentioned it either.
‘Screaming women,’ read Illingworth with relish, ‘helmetless policemen … this was London at midnight in the struggle to clear the streets. Listen to this: Two hundred people clashed … riots spread like lightning … Police cars and Black Marias swooped in … Squads of men were sent out almost continuously to different trouble spots … Housewives joined in the throng, shouting and waving their arms. Bottles began sailing through the air. Stones were thrown from windows. A boy of ten was hit in the mouth with a broken bottle and an elderly woman was knocked flying by the mob. Blimey.’
PC Dobbs, who was busy tagging a pile of knuckledusters, coshes and various improvised weapons, said, ‘It’s on all the front pages. This lot –’ he pointed to the jumble on the desk ‘– is our biggest haul yet.’
The station had an oddly festive atmosphere, with the sort of relaxed jollity that was usually only in evidence at Christmas time. In the corridor outside the office, there was a steady stream of tramping feet from cells to charge room and back again, and the hubbub coming from the foyer told him that the desk sergeant was still up to his eyes dealing with the various relatives of the people who’d been brought in. Picking up another paper, Illingworth read out the headlines in a declamatory tone: ‘RACE RIOT IN LONDON: Truncheons out as violence flares on a Saturday night in Notting Hill. Knife-and-club mob battles with police. Looks like we missed all the fun.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ said Stratton. ‘You’ll probably miss more tonight.’
‘Let’s hope not.’ Jellicoe stuck his head round the door. ‘We’re full up as it is.’
‘Just my luck.’ Illingworth carried on complaining. ‘I’m not on nights till next week. They had dogs down at Bramley Road and everything.’
‘Yes, and five coppers ended up in Casualty,’ said Jellicoe. ‘One of them had his head split open, so you just be thankful that you were tucked up safe in bed.’
‘What’s the tally?’ asked Stratton.
‘There’s twelve in the cells at Shepherd’s Bush,’ said Jellicoe, ‘and we’ve got twenty-three – plus your lot from yesterday, of course.’
Stratton massaged his temples. ‘I need to speak to Matheson about them – we think the same van might have been used last night, and there were people from the White Defence League goose-stepping about all over the place. You haven’t got Eddy Knight downstairs by any chance, have you?’
‘Sorry. He’s not at Shepherd’s Bush either. Gleeson is, though.’
‘I saw Gleeson,’ said Stratton. ‘I didn’t see Knight, but I’ll bet he was there somewhere. He struck me as someone who wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to prance about in his Nazi get-up. You’re all right hanging onto Baxter and Co. for the moment, aren’t you?’
‘No skin off my nose,’ said Jellicoe. ‘Matthews might not be too happy about it, though.’
‘I can’t help that.’ It hadn’t been Stratton’s intention to antagonise the station sergeant any further, but there was fuck all he could do about it. He was aching all over and dog-tired, having dragged himself out of bed after only four hours’ sleep. He knew what he must look like. He’d got a shock when he’d gone to shave, seeing his face, grey with fatigue in the bathroom mirror, the blackened eye staring back at him. A smooth chin and a clean shirt hadn’t gone nearly as far as they might in counteracting the impression of an ageing heavy who’d lost an argument. He’d spent a couple of hours wearily sifting through the statements from the partygoers taken the previous n
ight, and had come up with what he hoped was a definitive list, together with a note of who’d been treated in situ and who’d been taken to hospital. Fenella’s statement was among them. Reading it, he saw that Colbert had noted the time at five-and-twenty to one. He hoped she’d been able to get home soon afterwards – he’d telephone her when he had a moment to himself and find out. Feeling a quiet pleasure at the memory of their lunch together and her parting words to him, he returned to the list he’d compiled. Councillor Watson had clearly cast his invitations far and wide: there were two members of Parliament, a pop singer and two well-known jazz musicians among them. None had given statements, and Stratton imagined that, having removed themselves from imminent danger in the club, they’d got out of the area as swiftly as possible.
‘At least,’ said Jellicoe, who’d been studying the paper over Illingworth’s shoulder, ‘they aren’t trying to pretend that this one isn’t a race riot.’
‘Don’t think anyone would buy it this time,’ said Stratton.
‘Doesn’t look like they bought it last time either,’ said Illingworth, holding up a front page which read: RACE VIOLENCE GROWS.
‘People aren’t stupid,’ said Jellicoe. ‘And,’ he added, gesturing at the newspapers, ‘you’d best get rid of that lot before Matheson comes back. He said to tell you he went to take Rutherford to identify his missus,’ he told Stratton. ‘I’d have come in earlier, but I haven’t had a minute. He’s got someone over there taking statements from the staff as well, and a bunch have gone out to start re-interviewing all the people from that party about Mrs Rutherford. He says he’ll talk to the MPs himself, sir.’ Blimey, thought Stratton. Talk about quick off the mark – had the man actually managed to get any sleep? ‘The other thing,’ Jellicoe sounded apologetic, ‘is that he’s not made any statement to the press about Mrs R and he’s made it clear that if anybody breathes a word to a journalist – I’m sure you wouldn’t dream of it, sir, but I have to pass it on – he’ll have their guts for garters.’
*
As the statements from the partygoers had been taken before the discovery of Mrs Rutherford’s body, no one had particular reason to mention her and, apart from Gloria, they didn’t. Gloria’s statement, which was short and otherwise uninformative, was also the only one to mention Etheridge. Stratton was wondering what had happened to him. Perhaps Duffy had taken him home – or rather, if Duffy’s state was anything to go by, he’d taken Duffy. Glancing over at the front page of the Sunday Times– MIDNIGHT RIOT IN LONDON: Fighting rocks trouble district, he was considering this in a weary sort of way when the telephone rang. ‘For you, sir. A Mrs Perlmann. Putting you through …’
‘Hello? Hello?’
‘Good morning, madam.’
‘Is that Detective Inspector Stratton?’
‘Yes, Mrs Perlmann, it is. I understand you wish to speak to me.’
‘It’s my husband who wishes to speak to you, Inspector.’ Stratton had assumed that Mrs Perlmann would have an accent similar to her husband’s, but this lady sounded crisply English. ‘He says it’s urgent.’
‘Can you put him on the line?’
‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’
‘Then perhaps he could telephone later?’ asked Stratton, mystified.
‘He’s in hospital.’ Mrs Perlmann sounded exasperated. ‘That’s why he can’t get to a telephone.’
‘Was he injured?’
‘Injured?’
‘Last night.’
‘No, Inspector. He had a heart attack this morning. I’ve only just been allowed in to see him, and he won’t talk about anything except how he wants to see you. The doctors haven’t said so but it’s serious, and Danny knows it, which is why he keeps …’ She faltered, her voice thickened with tears, then stopped.
‘Where is he?’ asked Stratton.
‘Edgware General. Please, Inspector – as soon as you can.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Danny Perlmann looked terrible. His face was a greyish-yellow, with a clamminess that made the skin look like wet dough, his breathing was shallow and laboured, and the vitality Stratton had noticed was entirely gone. Tucked severely into a hospital bed and screened off from the rest of the ward, he fell back on the pillows after only a token attempt to sit up when Stratton appeared, and looked as though he might die at any moment.
‘He’s had a serious coronary,’ the matron had hissed in disgust when Stratton showed his warrant card. ‘I can let you have five minutes –’ she’d picked up the watch hanging from her bosom and glared at it to indicate the exactness of the amount – ‘but that’s it.’
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Stratton.
‘Bloody hell.’ His voice was low, and getting the words out was clearly an effort. ‘Those bastards.’
‘The White Defence League? Did they give you any more trouble?’
‘They tried, but the police stop them. I’m a foreigner,’ Perlmann added matter-of-factly. ‘The White Defence League don’t like me. Tell me to go back home. They say, “Go back where you come from,” but you know, Inspector, I can’t go back. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go.’ He spoke in a rush, his normally fluent English breaking up. ‘I come from Lvov. In 1918, when I was born, Lvov was in Poland. When I was young man, it was in Poland. Now – after the war – it’s part of Soviet Union. So tell me, how can I go back to a place that doesn’t exist? And even here … You know, Inspector, all these years I have been in this country, and they won’t make me a British citizen. I don’t understand. My wife is British. British and Polish fight on the same side in the war. I’m as good as any of them, but now I learned that they turn down my application again.’ Stratton nodded, remembering what Laskier had said in the nightclub – Danny wants all these top-drawer people to accept him … He dreams of a knighthood. He had no idea what he was supposed to say. Surely Perlmann hadn’t asked to see him because he thought that he, Stratton, had the power to change anyone’s mind? ‘That man,’ Perlmann continued, ‘that Watson—’
‘Councillor Watson?’
‘Yes, him. That party, last night, I want to tell him …’
‘Is that why you were there, to speak to him? Do you think it’s something to do with him, why you were turned down?’
‘Yes. He makes trouble for me, so I want to ask him why. Stefan try to tell me … waste of time, but I thought …’ He made a weak flapping motion with one pudgy hand, ‘Ach, stupid. What happened when we left, Inspector? More trouble?’ Stratton hesitated. ‘Yes, more trouble. I can see from your face.’
‘I’m afraid …’ Stratton began explaining, first about the petrol bombs and then about Mrs Rutherford. ‘… and of course,’ he concluded, ‘there’ll be an investigation, and I’m sure—’
‘No …’ Perlmann reached out and grabbed his arm. ‘No …’ There were beads of sweat on his forehead.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Perlmann. I know she was a friend of yours.’
Perlmann’s grip on Stratton’s arm increased and Stratton had the impression that every ounce of strength in the man’s body was going into his fingers. ‘Tell my wife I need to talk to Stefan. It’s important. Tell her Stefan must come …’
‘I’ll tell her, but I’m not sure he’ll be allowed to see you today,’ said Stratton.
‘He must. I can’t …’ Perlmann gave up with a slight shake of his head. Whether it was because it was too complicated to explain or whether the effort required to get the words out was too much, Stratton wasn’t sure. ‘Would you like me to fetch a nurse?’ he asked.
‘No.’ The thick fingers were like pincers on his arm. ‘I want to tell you … Stefan, he is good. A good man. His wife, Lola, she was there in the war. Different camp – place called Majdanek – so we did not know her then but later, when we come here … She’s dead. From six months. It was too much. She couldn’t …’ Stratton saw the film of tears in Perlmann’s eyes.
‘Did she commit suicide?’ he asked gently.
‘She hanged hers
elf. She pinned a note here,’ Perlmann tapped his chest with one hand, ‘written in Polish. Stefan, I am sorry.’ I tell you this because Stefan will not speak. He tell me, I don’t know why I thought I could protect her. You can’t protect from the past, even if you share it. He said they never talk about it. He said …’ Perlmann paused to catch his breath. ‘Only once they talk. He said to her how it’s different now – he told me she was angry when he says this. She said the world does not change – if someone thinks so then he’s a fool – that it can happen again. Lola can’t sleep, she won’t go outside and when she does, always with food in her pockets … She thinks when Stefan goes out, someone will take him – that she will never see him again.’ Perlmann’s breathing was now alarmingly laboured. Between gasps, he whispered, ‘He is a good man. He trusts you. Help him.’
‘I understand,’ Stratton assured him, hoping it sounded like the truth.
‘He doesn’t know …’ Perlmann tailed off, not looking at Stratton any more. In fact, his eyes no longer seemed to be focused on anything.
‘I’m going to call a nurse,’ said Stratton, ‘So …’ He looked down at Perlmann’s hand, which was still clamped round his arm, and for some reason he thought of Monica grasping his little finger when she was a baby. As tenderly as he could, he detached the gripping fingers and was about to go and find a nurse when Perlmann spoke again. At first Stratton heard only fragments of words – Polish, he thought, not English. Suddenly, in a hoarse but clear whisper, Perlmann said, ‘I ate shit, but I never ate German shit.’
‘I understand,’ Stratton repeated, and stepped outside the screens.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
April Scott’s flat in Bryanston Mews was a luxurious affair. On two floors above a garage, it had been done up to the nines with shutters and window boxes of tumbling pink and red geraniums. No expense had been spared inside either – and there was more than a touch, Stratton thought, of Hollywood: a thick, rose-coloured carpet, leopard skin, tumbling cushions, all the latest gadgets. His lack of sleep and the battered appearance he knew he presented made him feel shabbier than ever. Going upstairs to the toilet, he peered into one of the bedrooms and saw a vast bed with a canopy over it, an oval mirror inset in the middle of the pleated silk. Through the half-open door of a white and gold fitted cupboard he spotted a mink coat on a hanger. Miss Scott was clearly not a girl who came cheap.