by Laura Wilson
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Leaving Miss Jenner, who’d eventually arrived with fresh tea, to take a statement from Irene, Stratton went into the office, where he found Jellicoe typing up a copy of Mrs Halliwell’s statement with his two fingers. ‘Another lovely job, sir.’ Jellicoe thumped his way through the final sentence and pulled paper and carbon out of the typewriter. ‘Here you go – all down in black and white. Funny thing, Mr Halliwell – the stepfather, that is – come in just after we’d finished up, and somehow – you know how these muddles can happen, sir – we ended up leaving them in the same interview room together for five minutes, completely unsupervised. I’ve let her go, of course, and DI Peacock and Dobbsie are in with him now, taking a statement. Oh, and DS Matheson’s interviewing Knight – I gave him chapter and verse about where you’d got to and he says Tommy Halliwell’s all yours and keep up the good work, sir.’
‘In that case,’ said Stratton, regretfully putting down the bacon sandwich that Miss Jenner had brought for him in order to read through Mrs Halliwell’s statement, ‘you’d better bring him up sharpish, because we’ve got a hell of lot of catching up to do.’
*
‘Right,’ Stratton plonked himself down opposite Halliwell who, with nowhere to run, was looking paler and less sure of himself than he had two days earlier. ‘You know why we’re here, so if I were you, son, I’d do myself a favour and make it quick.’ Halliwell looked as though he was about to protest. ‘Save your breath – you’ll get your chance later. So far, we’ve got half a dozen witnesses that a van belonging to Mr Frank Halliwell, your stepfather, was in Golborne Road at the time Clyde Johnson was attacked …’ Stratton took Halliwell through everything that had happened in detail, enumerating the various witnesses as he went along. ‘Now,’ he concluded, ‘as you will know if you read the papers, Johnson was killed by a knife wound. Not a stick, not an iron bar, but a knife. We haven’t found the knife yet, but when we do – and believe me, we will find it – it will correspond exactly with the dimensions of the wound that killed Johnson. Oh, and by the way, we have a statement from your mother, Mrs Mae Halliwell, to say that you told her about the attack afterwards in considerable detail. Added to which, we have very good reason to believe that you recognised Johnson and, knowing who he was, you ordered the attack. That counts as premeditation, son, and that means you’re looking at a murder charge. Or, to put it another way, you’re fucked. Added to which, I’ve got this very tasty black eye from where you had a pop at me on Saturday afternoon, I’ve been on duty since yesterday morning and I haven’t had any breakfast, so I’m not in the best of moods. Now,’ Stratton stood up, and in a single, swift movement, leant across the table and, grabbing Halliwell’s tie in his fist, yanked his head forward so that it was barely an inch from his own, ‘if you don’t want me to rip your head off and piss down the hole, start talking.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
‘Good boy,’ said Stratton as PC Jellicoe pushed the statement across the table and Halliwell, pen trembling in his hand, signed his name at the bottom. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Here you go.’ Producing his cigarettes, he nudged the Bakelite ashtray into the middle of the table. Halliwell put his hand out and snatched one quickly, as though it might be a trick, but took three attempts to light it.
‘You know something, son,’ Stratton sat back and blew out a plume of smoke, ‘I don’t expect you to agree with this, but right at this moment I’m the best friend you’ve got.’ Halliwell eyed him with bitter resignation, but didn’t try to speak. ‘Your mates all came in like lambs, but you showed a bit of spirit, and I admire you for it.’
Confused by the change of tone, Halliwell looked over at Jellicoe who, seated at the table with his arms folded, nodded in judicious agreement. ‘I’m sorry I had to come down on you a bit hard before, but you’ve done the right thing – and that tells me, son, that you’ve got brains as well as guts.’ In for a penny, in for a pound, thought Stratton, seeing that Halliwell was sitting up a little straighter in his chair. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you’re in trouble all right, but you can make things a lot easier for yourself if you cooperate with us. The fact is, son, we all lose our tempers once in a while, and that business over your sister can’t have been easy. I reckon anyone who put himself in your shoes would agree with that, don’t you, Jellicoe?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jellicoe solemnly. ‘I’m sure I’d be just the same myself.’
‘There you are, you see,’ said Stratton. ‘And I shouldn’t be at all surprised if the jury think the same – but that, of course, depends on what’s presented to them. After all, it’s one thing to defend someone’s honour …’ Fearing that this might have been a step too far, even for someone like Halliwell, Stratton paused to see if the lad had swallowed it, and seeing from his expression of eager attention that he had, continued, ‘and it’s quite another to come over as a mindless thug. That’ll be your lawyer’s job, of course – but how your lawyer does his job depends on what we tell him.’
Stratton was relying on the fact that Halliwell, with no record, had no understanding of what went on in court other than what his less lucky mates had told him and, judging by the look on the lad’s face, it was working. ‘So, we could say that you lost your head and should be treated with leniency, or we could say that you’re a nasty, vicious little toerag who deserves all he gets. Are you following me? Yes? Good.’ Mentally poising himself, as if for a high dive, he continued, ‘We might also say that you were led astray by Eddy Knight and Mr Gleeson. You know them, don’t you?’ Stratton pretended to think for a second, then said, as if remembering something, ‘Course you do – you were picked up at the White Defence League place, weren’t you? You and your friend Eddy, and the famous green van that was hidden underneath a tarpaulin in the back yard. You don’t half get around in that van, don’t you, Tommy? All over the place, in fact – Colville Road, for example, on Saturday night.’
Stratton cocked his head on one side and contemplated Halliwell, who now had the look of a man waiting for the final blow to fall. ‘I knew you were smart,’ he said. ‘You’re ahead of me already. But it wasn’t your idea, was it, throwing those petrol bombs? Someone put you up to it, didn’t they?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
‘Halliwell’s adamant that the petrol bombs were Knight’s idea,’ said Stratton, ‘and I believe him. Attacking Johnson because he happened to be on the spot and Halliwell thought he was Irene’s boyfriend is one thing, but planning something like that, no.’ He leant back in the chair in Matheson’s office, punch-drunk with exhaustion.
‘He says,’ Stratton peered at the sheaf of statements he was holding, ‘Eddy wanted to get the nigger who killed his uncle and he knew he’d be at the party.’ Stratton blinked and opened his eyes wide. The words seemed to be wriggling about on the page like small insects. ‘I was a mug to get involved with it but I wanted to help my mate. I felt sorry for him because my sister was keeping company with a nigger and it broke my mum’s heart. He told me … Sorry, sir.’ Stratton stopped, shaking his head to try and clear his vision.
‘Quite understandable after the night you’ve had,’ said Matheson. ‘In fact, you look as if you could do with a sharpener.’
‘Bit early for me, sir.’
‘Bit late in your case,’ said Matheson, getting up to pour him a measure of Scotch. ‘Get it down you.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘Now, where were we?’
Stratton took a gulp – it was probably the last thing he needed, but the warmth it provided going down gave him the illusion of well-being, at least – and stared at the statement until the words stopped moving and reassembled themselves into something more or less coherent. ‘He – that’s Eddy Knight – told me this bloke’s name which I think was Etteridge. We knew he was the one who done Mr Hampton. All my mates knew about it because a bloke Eddy knows told him and we reckoned it was true because this man worked for Perlmann and everyone knows he wants to put more coloure
ds in his houses so he can get more money off them.’
‘I take it,’ said Matheson, ‘that Halliwell is not aware of Perlmann’s death.’
‘I don’t see how he could be, sir. But without any witnesses – unless any of the inhabitants of the house in Colville Terrace can identify Etheridge as being present at the time Hampton was killed – we’re on a hiding to nothing as far as that goes.’
‘You could be right,’ said Matheson. ‘However, I’ve just had a word with Eddy Knight. He maintains that he only heard about the attack on Johnson after it happened, but after we’d confronted him with what we found in the back of the van – jerrycans, rags and the rest – he confessed to throwing the petrol bombs. According to him, he was told by someone “very important” that Etheridge had killed Bert Hampton. He was quite cocky about it – kept saying we couldn’t touch this chap because he’d got what he called “connections”. When I mentioned Giles Rutherford’s name and explained that we already had him in custody, he turned a very funny colour indeed. When I told him about Mrs Rutherford, he suddenly became very keen to convince me that the petrol-bombing was Rutherford’s idea.’
‘So Rutherford told Knight that Etheridge had killed Hampton,’ said Stratton slowly. ‘Knight denied working for Perlmann – the business with the dog – but that wasn’t necessarily the truth, and given what we now know about Rutherford’s involvement with Perlmann and the fact that he’d been siphoning off his wife’s money behind her back, I’m beginning to think that it must have been Rutherford who put him up to the bombing.’
‘Not only that,’ said Matheson, ‘I’m thinking that it must have been Rutherford who put Etheridge up to killing Hampton. Etheridge was full of how Perlmann had promised him houses and the rest of it, wasn’t he? But I’m wondering if, before that, Rutherford hadn’t promised him that if he got rid of Hampton and kept schtum about the tribunal business he could take over collecting the rents and – eventually – the houses themselves. Etheridge wouldn’t have known that they were worth so little, would he? He must have looked at Perlmann and looked at Rutherford and thought he was going to be sitting on a goldmine. And petrol-bombing that party was scare tactics. According to Knight, there were only coloured people there. He had no idea what it all was in aid of – and nor, according to the statement they sent over from Shepherd’s Bush, did Gleeson. And Rutherford left before the attack took place – that was confirmed by one of the MPs who were present. I’m willing to bet that Rutherford thought the petrol bombs would be enough to scare his wife off the whole business and start her looking around for some other good cause.’
‘Or to provide a smokescreen for killing her?’
‘I don’t see how. Judging from what you’ve told me, it sounds as if she was perfectly happy to leave the money side of things up to Rutherford. There was no reason why she should have found out what was going on unless he managed to lose the lot. That might have happened eventually, of course, because it does appear that he has a bit of a gambling habit. After you telephoned me from West End Central, I decided to pay an early morning visit to Mr Nash at the Condor Club. He became quite talkative when I mentioned the matter of his non-existent gaming licence. Gave me a list of the people he’d already spoken to – I imagine we’ll find they were the ones dunning poor Mrs Perlmann – and he also told me that Rutherford’s lost a lot of money recently: £4,000 in August alone.’
‘But – playing devil’s advocate, sir – that might have been a reason for killing her, if he’d gambled away her money and she was about to find out.’
‘You’re not thinking like a gambler, Stratton. The more they lose, the greater the incentive to carry on playing and try to get it back, not to bash someone’s head in to cover up the fact that they’ve lost. All they need is one good win, and everything will come right again … And of course Mrs Rutherford would have had expectations, wouldn’t she? Her brother’s dead and her father’s over ninety. There’s something else, too. I used the information you gave me to have a bit of a sniff around the Porchester Building Society, and believe me, the last thing that Rutherford, Perlmann or any of the others needed was the spotlight being turned on their affairs. According to both the specialists who’ve been treating him, Lord Purbeck was well on the way to mental incapacity in February 1953 when the company was registered. Besides which, Wing Commander Victor Glendinning, whose name also appears on the letterhead, has been dead since November 1952. And when we’ve handed over all of Mr Rutherford’s precious paperwork to the legal and accountancy boys, I dare say we’ll discover some other interesting facts.’
‘If Rutherford didn’t kill his wife,’ said Stratton, who was starting to feel like a man running after a train he could never hope to catch, ‘that leaves Etheridge, and I can’t see any reason why he should have killed her either, if he was hoping to get something out of her, because she’d be bugger-all use to him dead, would she?’ As he said this, his tired brain suddenly filled with several partially associated impressions: the spangled bright blue ruff of Mrs Rutherford’s skirt standing proud beside the nettles and discarded tin cans; Rutherford’s eyes, bloodshot and wide with surprise when told of his wife’s death; Mrs Rutherford saying she’d often wondered how it would feel to be a hit with the chaps … ‘Unless …’ He stood up, draining his glass. ‘I think it might be a good idea if I had a quick word with Mrs Jones, sir, if she’s still here.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Stratton managed to catch Fenella just as she and Irene were about to get into a taxi outside the police station. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he felt a physical jolt in his chest as she turned towards him. She looked even lovelier than she had before, with her shining cloud of hair – which was, he thought irrelevantly, the colour of prunes – and the concern in her warm brown eyes. ‘I won’t hold you up,’ he said hastily, seeing that Irene was already seated in the back of the cab, ‘but I just wanted to apologise again for what happened earlier—’
‘You mustn’t,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ Realising that she could probably smell the alcohol on him, he stepped back sharply. ‘You had quite a night of it, didn’t you?’ she went on. ‘Irene’s been telling me what happened.’
Stratton glanced over Fenella’s shoulder and through the window of the cab at Irene, whose profile was hidden behind a curtain of hair. ‘How is she?’
‘Pretty upset, as I’m sure you can imagine. Especially about Roy Walker. She was in love with him.’
Stratton raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit quick, wasn’t it? When I spoke to her on Friday she was in love with Clinton Etheridge.’
‘I know. I met Etheridge at the party, remember, and I was just as taken in by him as Irene was … And she’s known Walker longer than you think – she told me he’s been looking out for her ever since she moved into Powis Terrace. Besides,’ she added in a sharper tone, ‘Irene is something of a lost soul who will latch onto anyone who’s kind to her, which is exactly how Etheridge got his hooks into her in the first place. Of course we’ve no way of knowing what would have happened with Roy Walker, but you trusted him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. I’m not at all sure that he trusted me, though – maybe that’s why he went to check on Irene on Saturday evening.’
‘And one thing led to another,’ said Fenella. ‘That’s not so terrible, is it, to seek comfort? Irene’s a very attractive girl, and perhaps Walker was lonely too.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, picturing Walker’s small, spotless room and remembering the things he’d said, ‘perhaps he was. Sometimes, in this job, one tends to forget that not everyone has an ulterior motive.’
Fenella smiled at him in agreement, and Stratton felt as though he never wanted to stop looking at her. ‘We should probably go,’ she said gently. ‘Irene needs to rest, and if you don’t mind my saying so, you look as though you do too.’
‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry. There was just one thing I wanted to check with you, about the party
. You told me that after the bombs were thrown, you were on the floor and Gloria bumped into you. You said she trod on your hand.’
Fenella looked puzzled. ‘She did.’
‘Which way was she facing?’
‘The front of the house. We both were. I remember that because I was in the front room when it happened, and when I looked up the first thing I saw was the curtains on fire.’
‘So Gloria must have come from the back of the house.’
‘I suppose so. I’m pretty sure she hadn’t been there just before the explosion. I don’t remember seeing her then, only afterwards.’ Anxious now, she added, ‘Is that all right? I mean, does it help with … whatever it is?’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton. ‘I think it probably does.’
‘Good. Well, in that case, I think we’d better—’
‘Can I ask one more question? It really will be the last one this time. Would you like to have dinner with me next Saturday?’
*
Standing on the dusty pavement and watching the taxi drive off, Stratton had an elated, vertiginous feeling, as though he was floating on air. Almost dizzy with exhaustion and Matheson’s double Scotch, Fenella’s words – There’s nothing I’d like more – echoed in his head. Seeing another taxi approaching like a mirage in the heat haze, its light miraculously on, he stepped into the road and stuck out his arm.
‘Where to, guv?’
‘Number 45, Powis Square, via Westbourne Park Road.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
‘Have you found him?’ Gloria, still in the same clothes, looked as though she hadn’t slept.
The sling on her arm, already fraying at the edges, now had the colour and consistency of a dishrag, and she smelt of fags and stale sweat, but she was staring at Stratton, red-rimmed eyes full of hope.