Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  “Very good. And what about that fellow from the hospital – the pathologist? When we were at the mortuary he seemed to know all about what had happened to that Watkins woman – was he anywhere close to the mark?”

  “Spot on, actually, sir,” said Jago. “The suspect we’ve arrested told us she hit the victim with a piece of wood, then held her down and strangled her, which is what Dr Anderson had deduced from his examination. I’d say he was pretty impressive.”

  Soper made no comment, maintaining his sceptical expression as he digested this response.

  “And it wasn’t a robbery?” he continued. “What about that handbag you said was missing?”

  “Harry Parker brought that in – claimed he’d found it and was returning it as lost property. Turns out he did us a favour. The bag contained a photo that was a valuable piece of evidence.”

  “So what does he want? A special award from the commissioner for assisting the police?”

  “No, sir. It also turns out he’s been doing some informal trading in ladies’ silk stockings and other things that he shouldn’t have been, so he’ll be receiving some rather different attention from us.”

  “Good. And what about that American woman? Have you managed to keep her out of trouble?”

  “She got back from Liverpool in one piece, although that’s no thanks to me. I think what she saw there will help her to write for her newspaper in a way that’s helpful to our war effort.”

  “She’s definitely on our side, then?”

  “I’m not sure I could speak for her views that categorically, sir, but I think I can say she’s on the side of the things that this country says we’re fighting for.”

  Soper gave him a quizzical look.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, but I take it you’re satisfied she’s not one of those Fifth Column types. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t think we’ve anything to fear in that regard. Mind you, I think the whole thing’s a bit exaggerated. Don’t you?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what to think,” said Soper. “But as long as she’s not getting under your feet I don’t mind. Is she happy with the information you’re giving her?”

  “As far as I can tell, sir,” said Jago. “There’s always the risk of misunderstanding, of course, but I’ll be meeting her soon. I’m planning to bring her up to date on a few points of interest.”

  Jago thought Cradock looked relieved to have been rescued from Divisional Detective Inspector Soper’s clutches, and headed off with him in the direction of the canteen. On the way they met Sergeant Tompkins.

  “Ah, there you are, sir,” said Tompkins. “I was looking for you. Could you just pop along to speak to someone? They say it won’t take a minute.”

  Jago went with him, with Cradock following in their wake. At the front desk a woman was waiting. Jago didn’t recognize her, but he did know the man standing just behind her – it was War Reserve Constable Price, but not in uniform.

  Price hastened over to Jago.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said, “but I wondered if we could have a brief word with you. I’m off duty, as you can see, but we had to see you.”

  Price turned back, took his wife by the arm and led her forward.

  “This is my wife, sir – Mavis.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Jago. “Now, tell me what this is all about.”

  “We’ve had a telegram,” said Price. “From Cunard.”

  “Was the City of Benares one of their ships?”

  “Yes, that’s right. It came at lunchtime. It said some more survivors had been found, so we went to the post office on the corner and phoned them – they agreed to reverse the charges, of course. They said that three days after that man came to tell us our children had been lost when it sank, an RAF plane had spotted another lifeboat – it seems there was one that got away that no one knew about. The people in it were picked up by a destroyer that got in to Scotland yesterday.”

  “That’s wonderful news,” said Jago. “Does that mean your children are safe?”

  Price’s face told him this was the wrong question to ask. Mrs Price began to weep quietly, holding on to her husband’s arm. Price was clearly labouring to bring his emotions under control.

  “No, sir. They said our daughter Gracie was in the lifeboat, but they had no word of our son. They said we must assume he was definitely lost.”

  Mavis Price gulped for air and swallowed hard, then spoke.

  “So you see, Mr Jago, it’s not the best news, but it’s good news – better than it was when Gordon came to see you on Sunday. We thought we’d lost both of them, but now we’ve got a daughter again. It’s like she’s come back from the dead. We had to let you know. We’re going to bring her home and keep her safe with us, or get her to somewhere safe in the country.”

  “I’m so glad for you,” said Jago. “And thank you for telling me.”

  “You were very understanding when I spoke to you last weekend,” said Price. “I didn’t know what to do. Everything in my life has changed – for the worse, and now for the better.”

  “I hope your memories of your son will be some comfort to you.”

  “They will,” said Mavis. “But I can’t keep sitting in the house thinking about Tom.”

  She turned to her husband and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “And I don’t want the Germans here… I’ve got to do something, Gordon, whether you approve of married women working or not. I want to get a job in a munitions factory and help sink those U-boats, or join the WVS and look after children who’ve lost their parents, or parents who’ve lost children. I don’t care what it is, I just need to get out there and do something.”

  Price nodded, putting his arm round his wife.

  “And you?” said Jago. “What about your job? Are you going to carry on?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Price. “I’d like to stay in the police until we win this war – and maybe even after it, if they’ll have me. I don’t want anything else from life, not now I’ve got Gracie back. I just want to see her grow up – and one day when all this is over, I’ll walk her down the aisle. I’ll be the proudest man in England.”

  CHAPTER 50

  They met at Westminster Abbey. It was Dorothy’s suggestion – a high explosive bomb had fallen during the night and smashed its Great West Window, and she wanted to see the damage before darkness fell again. Jago repeated his journey to Scotland Yard, except that this time when he came out of Westminster tube station he turned right instead of left and took the short walk down towards the abbey. The weather was fine, but the clouds gathering in the sky hinted at rain to come.

  It was two days since he’d last seen Dorothy, but it seemed longer. That was Wednesday, when he’d sat with her in a seedy saloon bar in Canning Town, more on duty than off. That was also when he’d met her brother. He still felt a surge of shame when he thought of the conclusions he’d jumped to. Now it was Friday, and for the first time since this case had begun he felt there was enough space in his mind for him to think it through properly. He was definitely off duty, and it was time for him to treat Dorothy to a proper meal.

  As he approached the abbey he glimpsed her in the distance, walking towards him. She was wearing a blue coat that he didn’t recall having seen before, but he recognized her more by her confident stride than by her clothes. She saw him and waved. Watching her approach, her heels tap-tapping on the paving stones, Jago tried to interpret the way she was walking, the movement of her arms, for clues about how to greet her, but he had no idea whether she would shake his hand or fling her arms round him. Everything about her seemed relaxed, open, and free – or in other words, unpredictable. He stood awkwardly, waiting for her with his hands behind his back, like a naughty schoolboy. She came to a halt in front of him, the hem of her coat swinging round her knees.

  “Hi,” she said, a little breathlessly. “You made it!”

  He nodded and gave he
r a hesitant smile.

  “You too.”

  “Okay – to Westminster Abbey.”

  She turned round, took him by the arm and began to march him in the direction of the abbey.

  “Is this so you can write about it?” said Jago.

  “Correct,” she said. “A bomb hitting Westminster Abbey – that’s a story.”

  “Will they let you?”

  “You mean the censors?”

  “Yes, I mean the abbey’s a national institution. Won’t they say it’ll be bad for public morale to report it?”

  “They’ll let me write something, just not everything,” said Dorothy. “I’ll probably have to say the damage was minimal and easily repairable, that kind of thing. They can’t very well say nothing, because thousands of people can walk past every day and see it, even go to services.”

  “Are they still having services?”

  “Why? Do you want to go to one? If you do, you’re out of luck – I heard they still hold a morning service, but the evening one has been suspended.”

  “Same as the theatres, then.”

  “I guess so. A cathedral isn’t the safest place to be in an air raid.”

  “It’s not a cathedral – it’s a royal peculiar.”

  “You’re kidding. That sounds like some crazy old king.”

  “I suppose it does. We’ve had a few – not least the one who lost the North American colonies and then went mad. But it doesn’t mean that.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It means the dean who runs it is accountable directly to the king, not to any bishop or archbishop. But don’t ask me why – I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “It sounds like most things in this country: you do all sorts of weird things, and no one knows why. It’s like you make it up as you go along.”

  Jago did not demur.

  They arrived at the abbey, and Jago watched while Dorothy set about her work amidst its sandbagged treasures. She surveyed the site, checked its surroundings, and scribbled in her notebook. It reminded him of himself, examining the scene of a crime and trying to piece together what had happened. Within a few minutes she was folding her notebook closed and putting it in her handbag.

  “All done?” he said.

  “Yes, that’s all I need.”

  “In that case, would you like to eat? It’s a little difficult these days – so many of the small places are closing early so their staff can get home before the blackout, and who can blame them? But I know a little French restaurant in Horseferry Road – it’s a family business, and several of the staff sleep on the premises.”

  “I didn’t know you were an expert on restaurants in this area.”

  “I’m not – but I used to work near here, and someone recommended it to me.”

  He hoped she wouldn’t ask questions. His time with Special Branch at Scotland Yard was something he wasn’t at liberty to discuss. He’d dined once at the restaurant during those days, and didn’t know any others near Westminster Abbey. It was certainly a far cry from any of the eating places he knew in West Ham, and considerably more expensive, but then London SW1 was a different world. He wondered what Rita would think of the prices. He couldn’t afford to eat in such a place regularly, and in truth he preferred Rita’s more homely establishment, but he’d felt in some ill-defined way a need to do penance for not having trusted Dorothy, for having judged her on superficial evidence.

  “Actually,” said Dorothy, “would you mind if we didn’t go to a fancy restaurant? I’ve spent all day indoors and I’d like to spend a little more time out in the open before we all have to get in our shelters. Can we just get a coffee or something?”

  Jago felt an unexpected sense of relief. Moving about outside and chatting with Dorothy seemed a more manageable prospect than trying to explain himself at a table in a public restaurant. He walked her back towards the river, passing the House of Lords on the opposite side of the road. A bomb had narrowly missed it the previous night. The House was still standing, but all its windows facing the road had been shattered, and the area in front of it was strewn with broken glass and rubble.

  “So the Home Secretary was right,” said Dorothy.

  Jago gave her a blank look.

  “About those little strips of brown paper on your windows not being very effective against bombs after all,” she said. “They’ll believe him now.”

  “Ah, yes, I see,” said Jago. “But look at that.” He pointed to an equestrian statue still standing in the middle of the debris. “That’s Richard the Lionheart, another of our crazy old kings. The bomb’s bent his sword, but he’s still holding it high. I like that.”

  They walked on and turned the corner, and soon found a coffee stall near Westminster Bridge. Jago bought them a mug of coffee and a hot meat pie each and got change from a florin. Rita would approve of that.

  He handed Dorothy her coffee and pie.

  “I’ve told him I’m a police officer, so he’s going to trust us to bring our mugs back. Let’s find somewhere to sit.”

  The light was beginning to fade and the air chill as they walked slowly back to Parliament Square and found a bench. Ahead of them ranged the gothic splendour of the Palace of Westminster, with the clock tower housing the Big Ben bell outlined against the sky above it. The tower seemed to Jago to stand guard over parliament, as it had done all his life, the only change being that now it had to comply with the blackout, so the lights behind its clock faces would soon be turned off.

  “You know what I can’t get used to with these air raids?” he said.

  “Tell me,” said Dorothy. She was clutching her coffee with both hands for warmth, and he felt her slide a little towards him on the bench so that they were almost touching.

  “It’s looking at a place like the Houses of Parliament over there – it’s been standing there all my life, governing the country and a quarter of the world besides while the river flows quietly past, and yet in a couple of hours a hundred planes could come over and bomb it to kingdom come. Nothing’s certain any more.”

  “Was it ever?”

  “I don’t know. I know it wasn’t when I was fighting in France, but then we came home, and I thought life would never be that fragile again. I thought I’d spend my life as a policeman, keeping everything in order, but now it’s all gone mad again. Sometimes I wonder what’s the point? I mean, why have I just used all my time and energy to solve a murder when a hundred times as many innocent people will be killed in their beds tonight?”

  “Because it’s your job, that’s why, and you do it well. No one else can be you and do your job, so you have to do it, just like I have to do mine. It’s not your job to bring Hitler to justice, but if someone takes another person’s life on your precinct it is your job. If you didn’t do it, you’d be giving in to evil.”

  “Do you believe in evil? I’m not sure it’s an entirely fashionable concept these days.”

  “I don’t know how anyone can live in this world with their eyes and ears open and not believe in evil. I believe it exists, and I believe we have to fight it wherever we are with whatever abilities we have. When you find your murderer and send them to court, you’re demonstrating that evil exists and that there’s a justice that exposes and judges it. If I didn’t think that was possible I’d go crazy.”

  “Eat your meat pie,” said Jago. “It’ll go cold.”

  Dorothy laughed.

  “Back to earth again. You really do keep your feet on the ground. So, tell me about your case. Did it have anything to do with the Fifth Column?”

  “There was a man who accused a couple of young women of spying for the enemy, but it turned out he was an imposter.”

  “And what did that have to do with the woman who was murdered?”

  “It looks as though Mary was taking information from their personnel files at work and passing it to the man. All we know is that one of those files went missing when Mary was still alive, so she could have taken it and let him see it, bu
t unless he tells us that, it’s only a suspicion.”

  “So who killed Mary?”

  “It was the other woman he’d tried to blackmail. She discovered Mary had passed him information about her and she felt her friend had betrayed her. She hit her with a piece of timber and then strangled her.”

  “Will she hang?”

  “That’s for the court to decide. If she’d only hit Mary she might have got off with manslaughter, but the fact that she then decided to strangle her means that she had time to think about it and acted deliberately, and that makes it murder.”

  Dorothy shivered.

  “Are you cold?” said Jago. “Perhaps we should take our mugs back and go.”

  “I’m okay. It’s the thought of one woman killing another in cold blood. But we should probably go anyway – it’ll be blackout time soon.”

  “I’ve just had an idea,” said Jago. “Have you ever had a ride on a London tram?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, now’s your chance. Another London experience for you. We can get one just over there.”

  He pointed in the direction of Westminster Bridge and jumped to his feet, cramming the last remaining piece of his meat pie into his mouth while Dorothy wiped a crumb of pastry from her lips. This time Jago offered her his arm, and she took it.

  CHAPTER 51

  They had to wait for a while, but eventually a Number 33 tram came into view, heading towards them across the bridge from the other side of the Thames. It turned into the Victoria Embankment and stopped with a piercing squeal of its brakes. They got on and Jago paid the conductor tuppence for two tickets, then led Dorothy up the steep half-spiral staircase.

  “This one’s come across from Kennington, where Charlie Chaplin comes from, and it goes up into North London,” said Jago as they got to the top. “Go down the front there.”

  He followed her along the narrow gangway in the centre of the upper deck, and they sat on the curved seat at the front, above the driver.

  “Do you have these in America?” he said.