Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  “So you’d like me to see what I can find out?”

  “Exactly. This must be handled very carefully, so I hope you won’t mind if I say it might be best if it were not entrusted to an inexperienced police constable.”

  “I understand. I shall have to share what you’ve told me with Detective Constable Cradock, though, as he is my assistant.”

  “Yes, of course. I would appreciate it if you could make some discreet enquiries yourselves. I don’t want anyone here to know they’re being investigated.”

  Jago closed his notebook and rose from his chair.

  “Very well, Mr Everson, I’ll look into it. I’ll let you know how I get on. And now I think I’d better see if DC Cradock has brought Miss Hornby back, so we can be on our way.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Canning Town didn’t feel like home to Flo Parker, even though she’d lived there since 1921. Before seeing it she’d imagined a proper town, like the ones she knew in Scotland, a higgledy-piggledy patch of buildings hugging the shore around a small port, or a cluster of houses in all shapes and sizes nestling together among the heather and the hills. But Canning Town was very different. At first sight it seemed to her another world – a sprawling mass of tightly packed streets that all looked the same, full of people who hadn’t two ha’pennies to rub together, their grimy, ragged children playing on cobbled roads. She’d moved there for work and stayed for love, but as a home it wasn’t much of an improvement.

  It lay in the lower part of the Borough of West Ham, bounded to the south by the docks and merging to the north into the identical streets of Plaistow, without any of the open space she thought you always got separating one town from the next. She’d asked people why it was called Canning Town, but no one seemed to know. When she first heard of it Flo had imagined a place full of factories canning fish, because it was near a river – or canning beans, for that matter. Since moving there she’d discovered it certainly had plenty of factories, but whether any of them were for canning she still had no idea.

  In 1921 there’d been plenty of older people who remembered the open sewers, so at least there’d been some progress. The little house she and Harry rented in Hemsworth Street only had the one tap and an outside toilet, but it had proper drains. People didn’t get ill as often as they had in the old days, and she and Harry both still had their health, touch wood. She looked around for the nearest wooden item, moved to the kitchen table and touched it with her right hand, her train of thought continuing uninterrupted. She heard the front door slam. That must be Harry home for his lunch, she thought. It was the first she’d seen of him today – she’d been out at work from seven in the morning, as usual, before he got in from his night shift, and then by the time she got home he’d gone out somewhere.

  Ever since she moved south the only work she’d been able to get was as a charwoman, cleaning offices and anywhere else that would pay her. She always seemed to feel tired these days. Harry, however, never seemed short of energy. You wouldn’t think he’d been up all night to look at him, she thought.

  “Hello,” he said as he came into the kitchen. “And how’s my darling little Flo today?”

  She didn’t like being called Flo, not even by Harry. People down here had always called her that, but she’d never asked them to. They seemed to think her name was Florence, and Florences were always called Flo. She’d given up trying to explain she was Flora. The days when she’d been Flora MacLeod were long gone. She sometimes wondered who she’d be today if she hadn’t moved away. Not that she missed her old life. Charring in West Ham might be hard work, but it was better than gutting herrings in Stornoway any day. There was many a day when she missed the Isle of Lewis, though. She gave Harry a weary smile.

  “Morning, dear,” she said. “I hope you behaved yourself last night. I don’t like to think what you get up to when you’re out in the middle of the blackout.”

  “Never you mind what I get up to in the night,” said Harry. “Serving my king and country, that’s what I’m doing.”

  He made an amorous lunge towards Flo, who stepped neatly to one side to avoid it and then winced as her body reminded her of her age.

  “Get away from me, you silly old fool,” she said. “My knees are killing me. If you spent half your day scrubbing floors you wouldn’t be so full of the joys of spring.”

  Harry stood behind her and slipped his arms round her waist.

  “If you must know, I’ve been up to nothing,” he said. “Not much, anyway. Digging round in rubble trying to find out if anyone’s got a house fallen down on top of their head, mainly.”

  “Not digging round for anything else, I hope. I know what you’re like with your little bits of treasure.”

  “Now don’t start on about that, Flo,” he said. “Harmless bit of tidying up, that’s all it is. If I do happen to pick something up it’s only stuff that people don’t need any more.”

  “Because they’re dead, or bombed senseless, you mean.”

  “It’s only things that’d get carted away with the rubbish. They might as well do someone a bit of good as be taken off to the dump. What use will they be there?”

  “You’ve always got an answer, but I’m worried.”

  “What’s up, then?”

  “I saw a magpie.”

  “So what? I saw a couple of pigeons myself.”

  “But it was on its own. You know what that means – bad luck’s coming.”

  “Stuff and nonsense.”

  “I’m serious – you need to watch your step, Harry Parker.”

  “Look, love, you don’t need to tell me that,” said Harry. “You know me – squeaky clean, that’s what I am. I do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay – or an honest night’s anyway. I’m rescuing people from bombed buildings, I’m demolishing dangerous ruins, getting plenty of good exercise, and getting paid three quid a week into the bargain.”

  One or two other perks came to mind, but he didn’t mention them. There were risks, of course, in being out during air raids while everyone else was tucked up safe in their shelters, but there were more important things in life than keeping safe. All things considered, Harry reflected, he was enjoying the war.

  Mavis Price poured her husband a second cup of tea. He sipped it and gave a sigh that he hoped would sound appreciative. He tried to sound more cheery than he felt.

  “What are you planning to do when I’m out tonight, then?” he asked.

  “You asked me to mend the turn-ups on your old trousers,” said Mavis, “so I was going to do that, but the treadle on the sewing machine doesn’t seem right. Can you do something with it before you go out?”

  “Yes, that should be easy – probably that new belt I put on has stretched. I’ll shorten it when I’ve had a bit of sleep. What else are you going to do?”

  “Listen to the BBC, I think,” she said. “I want to hear the news at nine o’clock, and they’ve got some nice music on later, with Ambrose, and Evelyn Dall singing.”

  “Is that the American woman?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. Good of her to stay here, I thought, instead of running back to America when the war started, like some people I could mention. They’ve got that new kid singing too, Anne Shelton. Lovely voice – and she’s only sixteen. I think there’s something wrong with that wireless, though – when I was trying to change to the other station last night it wouldn’t tune properly. It sounded all crackly and kept breaking up. Can you have a look at that too?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Gordon. “It might be just the tuning condenser contacts that need cleaning. Only takes a couple of minutes to clean them up with a drop of spirit, but it’s the devil of a job getting to them. I’ll try and do it later on if I’m not asleep.”

  “Thanks, love. Sounds like double Dutch to me, but if you can fix it that’d be really nice.”

  “And the other station you were trying to tune in to – would that be what I’m thinking?”

  “Maybe,” said Mavis. “It
was Hamburg, if you must know. The BBC’s hopeless – it only says what the government allows. You know I like to switch over after the news of an evening and hear what the other fellow has to say.”

  “Switch over to Lord Haw-Haw, you mean?”

  “Yes, and why shouldn’t I?”

  “You need to be careful, Mavis.”

  “Why? I think he talks a lot of sense. I reckon people listen to him to find out whether our government’s telling the truth. And he’s British, so he understands how we think. He says the war’s pointless, and I agree with him.”

  “But he fled the country as soon as he could see we were going to declare war, didn’t he? He’s working for the enemy now, and that makes him a traitor. You must be careful, Mavis. If people find out you’re listening to him there could be all sorts of trouble, especially in our situation.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, you should care. What are we going to do if I lose this job? It’s a miracle I got it in the first place – why they didn’t ask me any questions about my past I don’t know. If they start nosing around and finding out what we used to be involved in, I’ll be out the door before you can say Jack Robinson. Look at all those people who got arrested in May. Do you want the same to happen to us?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to us: nothing, that’s what. No one knows about your past – you were just rank and file. And anyway, the police were so desperate to get extra men when the war started I reckon they’d have taken on Jack the Ripper as long as he didn’t mind doing nights. You’re sitting pretty there, Gordon, and there’s nothing for us to worry about.”

  “Sitting pretty? Sitting on a time bomb, more like. Look here, Mavis, if I lose this job we’re in Queer Street, and no mistake.”

  “We’ll be in Queer Street before long anyway, with you on three pounds a week. I think I ought to get a job. We need the money, and with the kids away I’ve got the time.”

  “No, I don’t want you going out to work. I don’t hold with it. I’ll fix everything, don’t you worry. But you’ve got to watch what you say, or you’ll drop me right in it. If I end up on the wrong side of the bars you’ll be next, and where would that leave the kids? As long as I’m a WR I’m respectable, and if I keep my head down no one’s going to come round asking awkward questions. I’m worried enough as it is. I said some things to Ray Stannard this morning that I shouldn’t have. I was tired, you see, but I should’ve been more careful.”

  “I still think you’re getting all agitated about nothing,” said Mavis. She rose from the table, picked up the empty tea cups and started towards the sink.

  “I just don’t want any trouble, that’s all,” said Gordon. “And now that woman’s gone and messed it all up.”

  Mavis stopped and turned round.

  “Woman? What woman?”

  “The one I told you about – the one we found dead on the bomb-site this morning. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ray Stannard says he reckons she might have been murdered.”

  “So what’s that got to do with you?”

  “Nothing, in one sense. But the thing is, I think I know something about her. I ought to tell the detective who’s investigating the case, but then he might start digging around, and I don’t want that.”

  “Don’t tell him, then.”

  “But you don’t understand. Suppose I don’t tell him and it comes out anyway. Then I’d be in bigger trouble for not reporting it – I’d be obstructing the investigation. I tell you, I don’t know what to do. I wish I’d never seen her.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Jago steered the Riley away from the Everson Engineering building, heading north. By the time they were halfway through Plaistow he had briefed Cradock on what the owner had told him.

  “All clear, then?” he said.

  “All clear, guv’nor,” said Cradock. “Discretion.”

  “That’s right. And you know what discretion means?”

  “Of course, sir. It’s what I’m the soul of.”

  “Quite,” said Jago. “How did you get on at the mortuary with Miss Hornby?”

  “Nothing unusual to report. She identified the body as Mary Watkins, and that was that.”

  “Good. And what did you make of Miss Hornby herself?”

  “She’s no oil painting,” said Cradock.

  “I was thinking more of her character.”

  “Right, yes. Bit of a dark horse, I reckon. Did you see the way she was looking at Everson? Those big eyes? I thought she was going to swoon. It was like that look Ruby Keeler used to give Dick Powell in the films. I was thinking, any minute now she’ll be going into soft focus and the music’ll start.”

  “Come, now, I think you’re exaggerating a little.”

  “Well, yes, maybe, but I definitely saw something there that wasn’t just a personnel manager reporting to her boss.”

  “I thought she seemed a very professional woman.”

  “Yes. Still waters run deep, though, eh, sir? She’s very neatly turned out, too, isn’t she? Some of these working women can be quite dowdy, but she hasn’t let herself go.”

  “You make her sound as though she’s some old dear about to kick the bucket. The poor woman can only be the same age as me, if that. You’ll be telling me next I’m looking a bit frail and ought to sit down.”

  “Oh, no, sir, you’re still very spritely.”

  “Spritely? You can’t tell a man who’s barely turned forty that he’s spritely. Sixty is spritely, not forty.”

  “Yes, sir. My mistake. I’m sure Miss Hornby’s still in her prime. Definitely a case of sheep’s eyes, though, if you ask me.”

  Jago turned a corner and swerved to avoid a bomb crater that had swallowed up half the width of the road. He could see workmen hunched over what must have been a broken water main, judging by the flood that was spilling across the street. He braked sharply to avoid showering them with spray, causing Cradock to grab the dashboard and brace himself.

  “So where are we going now, sir?” he said, steadying himself as the car swayed on and hit dry road again.

  “We’re going to see whether Miss Watkins’ next-of-kin is at home.”

  He continued driving north through Plaistow and beyond, until they came to Forest Gate. The address they’d been given by Miss Hornby turned out to be an imposing semi-detached house from late in the last century, standing back from a broad and tree-lined road. He parked the car outside it and stopped the engine.

  “A bit more money up here than there is round Canning Town, I should think,” said Cradock. “Big bay windows and a few extra feet of front garden. Makes all the difference, I’m sure.”

  “You’re just jealous,” said Jago. “Let’s go and knock on the door.”

  Cradock followed him up the tiled path and was still adjusting his tie in the reflection of the front door’s stained-glass windows when it opened.

  The woman before them was younger than Jago had expected – in her early twenties, he would have guessed, younger even than Cradock. She looked like the kind of woman who took care over her appearance – with his first glance he took in a carefully made-up face, neat brunette hair, an expensive-looking lime-green two-piece dress, sheer silk stockings, and a spotless pair of dark green shoes.

  She stood in the doorway, with one hand still holding the door. She said nothing, evidently waiting for them to identify themselves.

  “Good afternoon,” said Jago. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  He pulled his identity card from his pocket and held it before her.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Jago, West Ham CID, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. Are you Miss Susan Watkins?”

  “No, I’m not. That is to say, not any more. I’m Mrs Susan Fletcher. I used to be Watkins, but Fletcher is my married name.”

  “I’m sorry: the information we’ve been given must be a little out of date. It’s you we’ve come to see, though. May
we come in?”

  “Of course,” she replied, opening the door wider and standing back so they could enter. “What’s happened?”

  “Perhaps we could all take a seat,” said Jago.

  She showed them into the living room, gestured to a choice of comfortable-looking seating, then sat in an armchair by the fireplace. Jago and Cradock took the sofa.

  “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you, Mrs Fletcher,” said Jago.

  Her mouth tightened.

  “It’s not George, is it?”

  “George?”

  “My husband. Has something happened to him?”

  “No. But I’m sorry to have to inform you that the body of a woman was found early this morning in Canning Town, on the site of a house that had been bombed during the night. The body has been identified as that of your sister, Miss Mary Watkins.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, a representative of your sister’s employer accompanied my colleague to the mortuary earlier today and confirmed it was her.”

  “Oh.” Susan said nothing more, but sat in silence, not moving, as though trying to digest this information. Eventually she spoke.

  “But why are you here? Why two detectives? Shouldn’t it just be a police constable in uniform?”

  “It’s because we have reason to believe your sister was not the victim of an air raid, Mrs Fletcher,” said Jago. “I’m afraid we’re investigating a suspected murder.”

  He watched her face for a reaction – surprise, shock, or even mystification, all responses he’d seen when notifying someone of the death of a sibling. But not a muscle moved. Whatever feelings she might have, it didn’t look as though she were going to give way to them. She simply stared ahead, seemingly at nothing.

  “Could you tell us a little about your sister?”

  She ran a hand through her hair and seemed to be forcing herself to concentrate on his question.