by Laura Wilson
‘No, Ted. I want to stay here. It’s lovely, and I’m sure the food’s lovely too.’ Fenella lowered her voice. ‘Just as long as I don’t have to eat it with those things.’ She pointed discreetly at the chopsticks on the table. ‘I really don’t think I could manage.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Stratton, ‘they always bring knives and forks for gwailo.’
‘For what?’
‘Gwailo. It’s what they call foreigners. It means “ghost man”. At least, that’s what the owner of this place told me, but perhaps he was just being polite. It might mean something much worse.’
‘Well, I suppose they find us quite as strange as we find them. Why don’t you choose for me?’ she added, as the waiter approached.
*
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fenella, when Stratton had ordered, ‘what were you saying before, about Stefan Laskier?’
‘Just that I don’t understand why he doesn’t put his side of the story to the newspapers, about Perlmann. I know he wasn’t a saint, but they’re making him out to be some kind of monster and no one’s defending him. I can see why Maxine Perlmann doesn’t want to have anything to do with them – as well as all those wretched creditors, she’s had journalists hounding her night and day ever since the Rutherford business came out, and they’d probably make her into a monster as well – but Laskier’s different.’
‘He’s tried,’ said Fenella.
‘How do you know?’
‘He told me. He said he’d had lots of offers from the papers. Some of them were prepared to pay as much as £500 for a story about Mr Perlmann, but he turned them all down because he wanted a guarantee that they’d print what he said – the whole story, not just bits and pieces. Anyway, he thought there was one journalist who would, so he agreed to talk to him, but the paper hardly printed any of it because it wasn’t sensational – and he told me that the man refused to believe that Perlmann didn’t have millions of pounds hidden away, even though he’d seen a copy of the will. I suppose the papers don’t want the facts to get in the way of a good story.’
‘When did he tell you all that?’
‘Yesterday, when he came to see Irene.’
‘Has she decided what she’s going to do? After all, she can’t stay with you forever.’
‘That’s something I want to talk to you about. This is nice, isn’t it?’ Fenella took another sip of her tea. ‘I didn’t think I’d like it without milk, but I can see it would spoil the taste.’
‘Fire away, then. Don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘If you promise not to say anything until I’ve finished.’
‘I’ll keep quiet.’
‘Well, Irene told me a few weeks ago that she thought she might be pregnant. At first, I thought that the … you know, the symptom, was probably due to shock, because that can happen, but we went to the doctor and he confirmed it. She thinks the baby is Roy Walker’s.’
‘I’d have thought it was more likely to be—’
‘You promised.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Judging from what she’s told me, I agree that it probably is more likely that the father is Clinton Etheridge, but Irene has decided it’s Walker’s child and if that’s what she needs to believe, then so be it. After all, it’s not impossible.’ Seeing that Stratton was about to speak again, Fenella held up a warning finger. ‘But regardless of who the father is, the child will be a half-caste, and whatever you or I may think, we both know that that’s not going to make things very easy for either of them. She and I have had a long talk about it – several long talks, in fact – and she’s adamant that she doesn’t want to give it up for adoption.’
‘But how’s she going to—’
‘Wait, there’s more.’ Fenella grinned. ‘She’s going to marry Stefan Laskier.’
Stratton stared at her. ‘But … I mean, when …? What happened?’
‘What normally happens: he asked her and she accepted.’
‘Does he know about the baby?’
‘Of course. I think he’d have asked her anyway, although perhaps not just yet – Irene’s news has moved things along a bit, that’s all.’
‘And he doesn’t mind?’
‘Apparently not. I’ve got to know Stefan a bit in the last few months, Ted. I confess I was quite suspicious the first time he turned up, what with him being connected to Perlmann and everything, but I started thinking about all the things you’d told me, and … Well, you know.’
‘You’ve got very fond of Irene, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have. And Stefan desperately needs somebody to look after, and now he’s got her and the baby. I suppose it’s not what you’d call a conventional marriage, but I don’t think that matters. It’s funny,’ she added, ‘but one has all these prejudices, and one never really questions them until something like this happens. Then you start to think about it, and you realise it’s all a lot of nonsense. When I think about my life, I’ve been so fortunate, really … Oh, dear.’ Fenella reached for her handbag and extracted a handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get silly.’
Stratton gazed at her as she dabbed her eyes. He didn’t know if it was thinking about Fenella’s kindness to Irene, or Irene herself, or Laskier, or everything that had happened, but there was a definite lump in his throat. ‘You’re not silly,’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re lovely.’ And, finding it entirely beyond him to say anything else, he reached across the table and took her hand.
Acknowledgements
I am very grateful to Tim Donnelly, Katie Gordon, Stephanie Glencross, Jane Gregory, Maya Jacobs, Simon McVicker, Lucy Ramsey, June Wilson, Jane Wood, Aga Wiechowicz and the staff at the National Archives and Colindale Newspaper Library for their enthusiasm, advice and support during the writing of this book.
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On a dank November day in the late 50s, DI Ted Stratton is called to a murder scene in Soho. The victim is Jeremy Lloyd, a loner with some strange tastes. Before his death he gave a photograph of a woman to a fellow lodger for safe-keeping.
Stratton’s enquiries lead him to Suffolk, to a sinister foundation, where Stratton meets a boy, Michael, who has been proclaimed as the next incarnation in a long line of spiritual leaders. The woman in the photograph is the boy’s mother, but she has disappeared . . .
When a woman’s body is found in woods nearby, Stratton initially assumes he has found Michael’s mother – but the reality turns out to be far more terrifying.
‘Laura Wilson’s DI Stratton series is one of the bright spots of British crime fiction . . . an intelligent, thought provoking crime novel with a particularly poignant ending’ Spectator
www.laura-wilson.co.uk
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