by Laura Wilson
‘Why the hell didn’t you say anything?’
‘Well …’ Arliss stared at him with an air of absorbed mystification, like a chimpanzee meddling with the workings of a watch, then said, ‘you’d got the confession off him, hadn’t you, sir? I never thought there was any need … Anyway, I say it’s all a waste of time. He done it, all right. He told me himself.’
‘Who in their right mind,’ asked Stratton, after the constable had taken himself off, leaving him and Ballard staring at each other, ‘would make a confession to Arliss?’
With a carefully neutral expression and tone, Ballard replied, ‘A man like Davies would, sir.’
‘I suppose so. Maybe he recognised a kindred spirit. I mean, they can’t have been that far apart mentally.’
Ballard looked reproachful. ‘Arliss was once seen to read a newspaper, sir. Or rather, he was caught turning over the pages and moving his lips at the same time, so—’
‘Point taken. You know what I mean. Actually, I suppose I can see how it might have happened. For all his faults, Arliss has a good way with prisoners, especially the younger ones, and he’s not threatening.’
‘Do you believe it, sir?’
‘Arliss obviously does, and he certainly isn’t sophisticated enough to have tricked Davies into saying it, or anything like that. Perhaps he was the one person that Davies felt comfortable enough with for him to tell the truth. Or …’ Stratton and Ballard stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, ‘we’d put the idea into his mind that it was necessary for him to confess it.’
‘You’ve got to admit, though, sir, that it has a ring of truth about it. Davies must have been in terrible state of stress at the time, and …’ Ballard broke off, shaking his head in confusion, and fiddled with a paperclip.
‘And,’ Stratton finished for him, ‘we just don’t know.’
Ballard looked up. ‘No, sir. And I know it’s not much comfort, but I don’t believe anyone else does, either – except Backhouse, that is, and he’s not going to tell us, is he?’
THREE MONTHS LATER
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Stratton stood on the pavement in Albemarle Street, looking up at the Andersons’ house, which was impressively large: five floors, and a basement, and it obviously went back a good way, too. Diana had telephoned the station the previous day, asking to see him. She’d not said much, just invited him to come and see her – for tea, he supposed, as it was half past five.
He was wearing a clean shirt, which at least went some way to make up for his baggy suit and the shaving cut on his chin. As surreptitiously as he could he shone the toes of his shoes, in turn, on the calves of his trousers, before mounting the three steps to the door and raising the enormous brass knocker.
He’d been surprised when the telephone call came. After all, he reasoned, the last time he’d seen Diana, she’d been at her lowest and most vulnerable, and it was only human not to want to be reminded of that. He certainly didn’t like being reminded of himself at his weakest points – and, in the last few months, what with the inquiry into the Davies case and Backhouse’s trial, there’d been nothing but reminders. He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t been relieved when the inquiry had ruled that Davies was, after all, guilty of both murders, and exonerated the police. However, judging by the furore this had caused in the press, the thing wasn’t going to go away any time soon, even though Backhouse had been found guilty. There being no appeal, he’d been hanged the previous week, but instead of making Stratton feel better, it had only served to give him nightmares about the things left undone and questions unasked.
At least, Stratton thought, Monica was all right, back at Ashwood and apparently quite happy in her work. Benson, she’d told him, had gone to America. He was in two minds about this, pleased that the man was separated from his daughter by God knew how many thousands of miles, but also feeling that work in Hollywood constituted a reward for bad behaviour. As he’d said to Don, he’d have preferred it if Benson’s enforced separation from Monica had been caused by, say, a fatal step in front of a bus, but, as Don had remarked, one couldn’t have everything …
The door was answered by a large woman with a pair of vast bosoms that looked, in their casing of stiff grey cloth, like some sort of defensive fortification. Once it became clear that Stratton, who hadn’t given his official title, wasn’t there to repair the drains or sell a vacuum cleaner but had been invited by Diana – about which she clearly hadn’t been told – she seemed unsure of quite what to do with him. She was on the point of making him wait outside when an attractive blonde woman appeared and, introducing herself as Mrs Anderson, whisked him into what he imagined must be known as the drawing room. Dark and high-ceilinged, with plenty of fancy cornicing and whatnot, it was full of the sort of furniture which was never bought, but handed down from generation to generation.
Mrs Anderson offered him a seat and a glass of sherry. He’d have preferred a cup of tea, but didn’t like to say anything, so he accepted. Mind you, he thought, sipping it, it was a lot less sweet and consequently much nicer than any sherry he’d had before – clearly the real stuff. While not betraying any hint of snobbery, his hostess spoke to him – ‘Diana’s told us so much about you … I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute … Don’t mind Mrs Robinson …’ and so forth – with an odd mixture of friendliness and impersonality. Although she was obviously trying to put him at ease, Stratton couldn’t help wondering if this was how she would have spoken to an old family retainer if they’d happened to meet in unusual circumstances. All in all, he felt pretty uncomfortable, so it was quite a relief when, a few minutes later, the sound of a distant telephone bell was followed by the appearance of Mrs Robinson to say that Lady Melling was on the line.
Mrs Anderson excused herself and left, and Mrs Robinson stayed long enough to give him a look that stopped just short of telegraphing the fact that she’d be counting the spoons before following suit. Left alone, Stratton stood up and went to examine the line of silver-mounted photographs on the mantelpiece. The one in the middle showed a stately country pile; Mrs, or perhaps Mr, Anderson’s childhood home. Stratton picked it up, weighing the frame in his hand. Diana, he thought, would have grown up in a similar place. This was ‘the other half’ all right. The sheer, unassailable poshness of the whole thing … The long line of noble sperm stretching back through history and culminating around the eleventh century with Sir Somebody de Something who’d been rewarded for his services to the king – and not for roasting oxen or shovelling shit, either.
He was glaring down at the photograph when he heard a discreet cough behind him, and turning, he saw Diana standing about two feet away. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘That’s all right.’ Her smile was hesitant, but she looked far healthier than when he’d last seen her, glowing and fresh as if newly minted and wearing a smart grey suit that showed off her elegant legs. ‘Hideous, isn’t it?’
Confused – surely she couldn’t mean what she was wearing? – it took him a second to realise that he was still holding the photograph. ‘It’s certainly very big. And old, of course,’ he added, feeling stupid.
‘Fourteenth century, I think – originally, anyway. Until it got smothered. Some Victorian ancestor of Lally’s obviously told the architect to lay it on with a trowel.’
‘Yes …’ Unable to think of anything to say, Stratton stared at the photograph in silence until Diana took it, very gently, out of his hands and repositioned it on the mantelpiece with the others.
‘You know,’ she said when she turned round, ‘that’s the past. That house’ – she indicated the photograph – ‘it’s a white elephant. Like the one I grew up in. That’s … well, it’s a ruin, really. Once the army’d finished with it …’ She shrugged. ‘I managed to sell it in the end, but it didn’t fetch much.’
‘But don’t you … I mean, aren’t you sorry? I mean … Well, you must have felt an attachment …’ Stratton tailed off, embarrassed.
‘Not really,’ said Diana, moving briskly towards the drinks table. ‘It’s just a place. I wasn’t very happy there.’ Picking up the decanter, she said, ‘More sherry?’
Stratton was surprised, when he looked at his glass, to find that it was empty. ‘Thank you, if it’s not too much trouble.’ God, what a ridiculous thing to say … What the hell was the matter with him?
Diana refilled his glass and, pouring a glass for herself, held it up. ‘Cheers!’
‘Er … cheers!’ Stratton touched his glass to hers, carefully. There was a moment’s silence as they both sipped and then, as Diana didn’t seem about to speak, he said, ‘What … I mean, why did you want to see me?’ God, she was staring at him – it was the wrong tone, too abrupt … ‘I mean, I’m delighted to see you, and you look … you look … much better, and … If there’s anything I can do …’
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Diana. Two hard spots of colour had come into her cheeks and, speaking very fast, she continued, ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t … I mean, that man … I’ve been staying here, and Lally and Jock have been very kind. I’ve been doing some decorating for them as payment for bed and board.’
‘Have you?’ Stratton couldn’t for the life of him imagine her up a ladder, wielding a paintbrush.
‘Surprised?’ Diana grinned.
‘Yes, frankly.’
‘I like doing things like that – and I’m quite good at them, believe it or not. I only discovered I could do that sort of thing quite recently. After I married James, actually – I wanted to get our flat decorated and I couldn’t find anyone to do it, so I decided I’d set to and do it myself.’ Stratton was relieved that she said this quite neutrally – imparting information rather than painfully reliving a memory of happier times. But then, he thought, she’d hardly do that in front of him, would she?
‘I didn’t think,’ Diana continued, ‘that I’d be able to get another job like the one I had before, so I’ve been taking a course in shorthand. We had to do an examination, to test our speeds.’
‘Did you pass?’
‘Yes! Believe it or not, I’d never taken an examination before. I haven’t had much in the way of … well, formal education, I suppose you’d call it, and I was terribly nervous, but I practised like anything and it all went swimmingly.’
‘Well, congratulations,’ said Stratton, raising his glass once more.
‘They’re taking me back at Ashwood,’ said Diana. ‘The design department, so I shan’t need the shorthand after all, but I’m glad I did it because you never know about the future … I’m starting on Monday. Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to ask – how’s Monica?’
‘Fine,’ said Stratton. ‘She lost the baby, but she’s fully recovered. I’m sure you’ll bump into her at the studio.’
‘Oh, good. I mean, about seeing Monica again, not about … But as long as she’s not hurt, physically … It’s always so … I mean, I’ve been in that situation – losing a baby.’ Diana looked down at her feet. ‘Several times, in fact. It was pretty horrible, but,’ looking up, she gave him an encouraging smile, ‘one does get over these things, you know.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton, surprised by this intimacy and hoping he wasn’t blushing. ‘It can’t have been easy for you. Any of it, I mean.’
Diana acknowledged this with a nod, then, after a second, carried on in a normal voice. ‘Well, there has been one piece of luck. An aunt of James’s died several weeks ago. He’d never spoken of her – in fact, I didn’t even know she existed – so they obviously weren’t close, but she left him some money. Her death was sudden – a heart attack – so I suppose she hadn’t got round to changing her will … Anyway, it comes to me. It’s enough for a small house or a flat somewhere. Lally’s going to help me look. Oh, dear. You’re looking at me as if I’m mad, and I don’t blame you, but—’
‘No,’ Stratton protested. ‘I wasn’t. I’m sorry if that’s how it seemed. I just …’ He stopped, swallowed hard, and feeling that there was nothing, at this point, to lose, ploughed on. ‘I just like looking at you.’
‘Oh …’ Diana gave a little laugh and turned away slightly. The redness of her cheeks seemed to have intensified. She took another sip of her sherry – quite a large one this time – and said, ‘I wanted to tell you. I suppose I want you to know that I’m not completely useless. I don’t really expect you to understand or anything, but I just …’ Shaking her head, she looked miserably down at her glass.
‘I’ve never thought you were useless,’ said Stratton, bewildered. ‘Just … different, that’s all.’
‘That’s it, isn’t it? Different.’
‘Well, you are. I mean, we are. Oh, dear. I’m not doing very well, am I?’
‘Neither am I. It’s just, when I saw you again, I was so glad, and … Well, I was glad, that’s all. And,’ she continued fiercely, ‘I want to stand on my own two feet, and I wanted you to know that.’ Her eyes blazed for a moment, as if she thought he was about to contradict her or laugh at her.
‘I understand,’ said Stratton, staring at her. Suddenly, the room, and all it implied, seemed to fall away and Diana herself was all he could see. ‘Perhaps,’ he said cautiously, ‘if you can find a free evening in your new schedule, you might like to come out to dinner. Nowhere fancy, I’m afraid, but I’d like to hear how you’re doing.’
Diana’s eyes widened, and Stratton took an involuntary step backwards. Was she going to raise her chin and coldly ask him to leave? Scream? Slap his face?
She didn’t do any of those things. Instead, she smiled, a wide, genuine smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’d like that. I’d like that … very much. Thank you, Edward.’
A NOTE ON
HISTORICAL BACKGROUND
Part of the storyline of this book is based on a pair of true cases: that of Timothy John Evans, who was hanged in 1950 for the murder of his fourteen-month-old daughter, Geraldine, and that of John Reginald Halliday Christie, who was hanged in 1953 for the murder of his wife, Ethel. Both resided at the same address, 10 Rillington Place, Notting Hill Gate, London W11. Although names and places have been changed and there has been some tinkering with dates, I have stuck as closely as possible to the known facts in both cases in the writing of this book. However, it should be noted that I have treated them as a novelist, rather than as a historian. Some of the characters are, of course, based on real people, but others are entirely made up and have no resemblance to anyone either living or dead.
I first heard of these cases in the mid-seventies, from my mother. At the time, I was attending a school situated close to the street that had been Rillington Place (the area immediately surrounding it has now been redeveloped and the roads renamed). I cannot now remember how the subject came up, but my mother, a doctor, had studied the medical aspects of the cases when she trained at St Andrew’s and she told me what had happened. It was the story rather than the forensic details that drew my attention, and I remember feeling desperately sorry for Timothy Evans and his family.
Many years later, considering the cases as potential material for a novel, I began to wonder about the feelings of the detectives in the Evans case. In 1950, when Evans was hanged, everybody was sure that justice had been done – there seemed no doubt at all that he had killed not only his daughter, but also his wife, Beryl. What must those policeman have felt when, in 1953, six bodies, two of them skeletons, were discovered at the same property, in Christie’s flat and in the garden of which he had sole use?
When it emerged that Evans’s conviction had been, in large part, secured on the evidence of a serial killer, doubt was cast on the fairness of his trial. With a growing number of people feeling that two stranglers of women living in the same house was too great a coincidence, there were demands for an enquiry. On 6 July, a fortnight after Christie was sentenced, the then Home Secretary, Sir David Maxwell-Fyfe, announced to the House of Commons that he had instructed Sir John Scott-Henderson QC to hold an inquiry
which would determine whether a miscarriage of justice had occurred in the case of Evans. Scott-Henderson interviewed not only Christie (who was hanged on 15 July), but also twenty witnesses who had been involved in one, or both, of the investigations. In his report, he concluded that Evans was guilty of both murders and that Christie’s confession to the murder of Beryl Evans was not reliable. He wrote: I am satisfied that Christie gradually came to the conclusion that it would be helpful in his defence if he confessed to the murder of Mrs Evans.
As Scott-Henderson had accepted, apparently without question, not only Christie’s confessions relating to the other murders but also the evidence he had given at Evans’s trial, many people felt that the report was flawed and the controversy over the case continued. Besides numerous articles in newspapers and magazines, several books were written on the subject. The most famous of these is 10 Rillington Place by Ludovic Kennedy (1961), which began with an open letter to R. A. Butler (known as Rab), who was Home Secretary at the time, requesting an urgent review of the case. In this letter, he quoted a statement from the Rt. Hon. James Chuter Ede, the Home Secretary who had sanctioned Evans’s execution, saying that he felt a mistake had been made.
A second inquiry, chaired by the High Court judge Sir Daniel Brabin, was held at the end of 1965. This was a longer and altogether more thorough investigation than the Scott-Henderson inquiry, which had been criticised, by Kennedy and others, for its haste and lack of proper analysis. The Brabin report included information about an apparently spontaneous confession by Evans that he’d killed the baby because ‘he had to strangle it as he could not put up with the crying’. This was made to Sergeant Trevallian of the uniformed branch while the Welshman was in custody at Notting Hill police station in 1949. It is on this that I based Davies’s confession to PC Arliss, although, unlike Arliss, Sergeant Trevallian mentioned the confession to a senior officer immediately but was told that ‘they knew all about it as Evans had made a statement’.