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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blitz Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
First Published as Fifth Column. September, 1940. As the Blitz takes its nightly toll on London and Hitler prepares his invasion fleet just across the Channel in occupied France, Britain is full of talk about enemy agents. Suspicion is at an all time high and no one is sure who can be trusted. In Canning Town, rescue workers are unsettled when they return to a damaged street and discover a body that shouldn't be there. When closer examination of the corpse reveals death by strangling, Detective Inspector John Jago is called upon to investigate. But few seem to really care about the woman's death - not even her family. As Jago digs deeper he starts to uncover a trail of deception, betrayal, and romantic entanglements.
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Seitenzahl: 477
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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THE CANNING TOWN MURDER
Mike Hollow
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For Margaret, my wife, friend, and most faithful editor in art as in life
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
The Anderson shelter had guarded his life for another night, but it felt like a grave. Only the thin sheet of corrugated iron at his side separated him from the cold earth in which he was lying. He drifted in and out of a restless, shallow dream. Now he was in France again, in a dugout lined with sodden planks of wood, waiting for the day’s shelling to begin. Then the picture shifted, and he was twelve years old, a Boy Scout stirring in a canvas tent as a chorus of birds heralded the start of day. Their song began to fill his ears, with one note soaring louder than all. It wailed on and on, and his body jolted. He was awake.
His eyes opened, and he was back in the present. It was Friday morning. He wasn’t a Boy Scout and he wasn’t a soldier, and the dawn chorus was the monochrome blast of the all-clear siren.
Detective Inspector John Jago was chilly despite being fully clothed, and his joints were stiff. He tugged the 8worn blanket up under his chin and shifted his aching body carefully on what passed for a bed in this cramped metal box as his mind cleared.
What a way to live, he thought. He’d spent twenty-five shillings – not to mention elevenpence postage – on Selfridges’ promise of a purpose-made ‘shelter bed’, but that decision was beginning to feel like a triumph of hope over experience. The wooden frame and webbing (‘comfortable even without a mattress’) were sturdy enough, but the thing was only five foot nine long and a miserly twenty inches wide. The simple act of turning over was now a delicate manoeuvre that risked pitching himself onto the damp floor, bedding and all. Tonight he would fetch his old eiderdown from the house and lay that on top. At least being warm might help, although the air raids of late had pretty much put paid to any chance of a decent night’s sleep.
A lady in the newspaper, well meaning no doubt, had advised that the best antidote to a sleepless night in a shelter was to undress and go to bed ‘properly’ as soon as the raids were over. All very well if you didn’t have a job to do, he supposed. And as for her other helpful suggestion – having a sleep after lunch – well, that was just another way to make a policeman laugh.
He checked the time on his wristwatch. Eight minutes past six. Just five minutes or so until the blackout ended, then another half-hour till sunrise, but there was nothing to be gained from staying on this paltry shelf of a bed. He hauled his reluctant body out from under the blanket, tied his shoes, slipped on his coat and clamped his crumpled 9grey fedora onto his head. One final stretch to get his limbs working and he felt at least half ready to face the world. He unlatched the door he’d cobbled together a year before from salvaged wood – wondering then, as now, why the government had decided to supply the shelters with no means of sealing the entrance – and climbed out.
His house was still there: a good start to the day. At least he should be able to go to work. No signs of fire in the immediate vicinity, but half a mile away the first of the dawn light revealed smoke curling above the rooftops, marking the points where random destruction, and no doubt death, had befallen the unlucky.
He trudged along the few yards of uneven path to the back door of the house. A cup of tea would perk him up if the gas was still working, and if there was power he’d make a bit of toast to keep him going until he could get some proper breakfast in the station canteen – if not, it would be bread and margarine with a scraping of jam again. He opened the door, went in and closed it behind him. With the blackout curtains still in place it was darker inside the house than it was outside. He searched for the light switch with his fingers and flicked it down, and was pleased to see the bulb that dangled from the ceiling glow into life – he had electricity.
The brown enamel kettle was already full – he tried to remember to fill it every night in case the Luftwaffe hit the water main. He turned the knob on the stove and heard the hiss of gas, followed by a dull pop as his lighted match ignited it. He placed the kettle over the flames and 10reached for the teapot – and then the phone rang.
With a sigh and another glance at his watch he put the pot down and walked through to the narrow hall. At this time of the morning there was no mystery about who might be calling. He lifted the receiver.
‘Jago.’
‘Good morning, sir. Tompkins here, at the station. Sorry to disturb you at this time of day, but I’ve just come on duty on early turn and I’ve been asked to call you.’
‘Don’t worry, I was already up. And it’s always a pleasure to hear your dulcet tones, Frank.’
‘That’s not what my missus calls it.’
‘Well, far be it from me to intrude on private grief, Frank. So what is it that needs me to turn out at this ungodly hour?’
‘A body, sir.’
‘Lots of bodies around these days, Frank. What’s special about this one?’
‘Possibility of suspicious circumstances, apparently. That’s why they want you.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Down in Canning Town, sir. Tinto Road, near the bottom end of Star Lane. On a bomb site on the right-hand side as you go down the road. They say you can’t miss it.’
‘I dare say. Have we got anyone down there?’
‘Yes, sir, young Stannard. He’s waiting for you to arrive. He’s got reinforcements, too – one of them War Reserve constables.’
Jago noticed the dismissive tone in which the station 11sergeant referred to PC Stannard’s recently enrolled companion. That was Frank’s way of signalling his opinion of the government’s solution to the wartime shortage of police officers, he thought, but now was not the time to rise to his bait.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Get hold of DC Cradock and tell him I’ll pick him up at the station in about twenty minutes. And see if you can get the police surgeon down to the site pretty smartish.’
Detective Inspector Jago put the phone down, returned to the kitchen and turned the kettle off. A cup of cold water would have to do for now.
His estimate of twenty minutes proved to be optimistic. The Riley started first time, and he was on his way promptly, but the roads were still clogged with fire hoses, and twice he had to find a way round streets that had been cordoned off because of bomb damage.
It was five to seven by the time Jago reached West Ham Lane. He could see the police station ahead of him, its front door screened against blast by a wall of neatly stacked sandbags and the windows to the side of the entrance protected by horizontal wooden slats. On the pavement in front of the station stood Detective Constable Cradock, awaiting his arrival.
Jago pulled up beside him. The young man looked as though he’d dressed quickly, and his hair was dishevelled. He eased himself carefully into the passenger seat with a quick ‘Morning, guv’nor’, and Jago nodded a wordless greeting to 12him in return. Cradock looked as bleary-eyed as Jago felt.
‘You getting enough sleep with these air raids every night, Peter?’
‘Not too bad, sir. They wake me up, of course, but I try to get back to sleep when the noise stops. How about you, sir?’
‘I seem to have lost the knack. Every time I think I’m going to doze off again, Hitler drops another bomb just to spite me, and the anti-aircraft guns make so much noise I wonder whether he’s slipping them a fiver just to keep me awake. Last night I don’t think I got to sleep until it was nearly time to wake up. I must be getting old.’
Cradock raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if he’d just realised something important.
‘It could be night starvation, sir. Maybe you should try a cup of Horlicks at bedtime.’
‘Tommy rot,’ said Jago. ‘I haven’t quite reached that stage, thank you very much. It’s morning starvation I’m suffering from – I didn’t even have time for a piece of toast before I came out. And in any case, if I need anything to drink before I go to bed, I’ll stick to a tot of whisky. Now, if I can stay awake long enough we’re going to Canning Town to see a man about a body.’
Jago slid his left foot onto the gear change pedal, then with a glance over his right shoulder and a light touch on the accelerator he eased the car back into the sparse early morning traffic.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Morning, sir,’ said PC Ray Stannard as Jago swung his legs out of the car. ‘Sorry to drag you out first thing in the morning, but I thought you ought to see this.’
Jago looked the young constable up and down. So much had changed in the last few weeks. It was no surprise now to see an officer in such a state at the end of a night shift. His tunic and trousers were streaked white with plaster dust, his boots were scuffed, and his hands and face were daubed black with soot. Not so long ago, thought Jago, Stannard would have spent the night quietly patrolling silent streets, rattling the doors of shops to check they were locked and watching out for any evidence of petty crime. But now it could reasonably be assumed that in the last few hours he and his colleague had been scrambling over scorched wreckage, helping to pull the living and the dead out from under ruined buildings, and taking on any and every task that needed doing in the wake of the latest air raid. 14
The detective turned to the War Reserve PC, who was in a similar state. He knew Stannard, but this other somewhat shorter man he didn’t recall. He gave a sideways glance back at Stannard and raised his eyebrows.
‘Oh, sorry, sir,’ said Stannard, ‘this is PC Price; he’s a War Reserve. Volunteered when the war started, but he’s been on nights a lot, so you may not have met him.’ He leant a little closer to Jago and lowered his voice. ‘Not as bad as some, sir. Old soldier. Quite resourceful, considering they get thrown out onto the streets without any training.’
Jago nodded.
‘Right, tell me what we’ve got here, then.’
‘A woman, sir, found dead just back there.’
Jago followed the direction of Stannard’s pointing finger. The neat row of small, late-Victorian terraced houses was punctuated by a gaping space where two, three, perhaps even four dwellings had been reduced to a straggling heap of matchwood and rubble by at least one high-explosive bomb. Those still standing either side of the gap had lost all their windows and most of their roof tiles. At the far end of the wreckage he could see part of a front bedroom that remained attached to the neighbouring house; a wardrobe leant drunkenly against the wall where what was left of the floor was sagging, the ragged stumps of its joists exposed to the air. Seven untidy-looking men were standing in a huddle on the pavement, smoking. There was no other sign of activity on the site. 15
‘So what’s all this about suspicious circumstances?’ said Jago.
‘Well, it’s just that this woman, she wasn’t here when she should’ve been – if she’d been dead, that is – but then she was when she shouldn’t have. I’ve told the men who found her you’ll want to talk to them, so they’ll explain.’
‘All a bit quiet here now, isn’t it?’
‘The ARP warden says everyone’s accounted for, sir, and there’s no sound of anyone trapped. The people who’ve been bombed out have been taken to the rest centre in Star Lane. I thought it best to stop the work until you got here, so nothing would get disturbed.’
‘Good man,’ said Jago. ‘Do we know who she is?’
‘I’m afraid we don’t, sir. There’s no identity card on her, no sign of a handbag or purse, and the warden says he doesn’t recognise her.’
‘And you’ve had a thorough look over the site?’
‘Yes, sir. Price and I looked all round for anything that might identify her, and got the rescue squad involved too, but there was nothing.’ Stannard paused, since Jago seemed to be thinking, then said, ‘The police surgeon’s here too, sir, just on the other side of that pile of wreckage there. That’s where the body is – you can’t see it from here.’
‘Very good. DC Cradock and I will go and take a look. You show us the way.’
The two detectives followed Stannard and Price, clambering up the unsteady heap of bricks, tiles and timbers littered with the shattered furniture and 16belongings of the unfortunate people whose homes this had been only hours before. When they reached the top they saw the grey-haired portly figure of Dr Hedges, the police surgeon, crouching beside the body of a young woman. She was a redhead, wearing a green coat that was unbuttoned, revealing a grey suit and green blouse. She had a black shoe on her left foot, and a matching shoe was lying near her right. Hedges hauled himself awkwardly to his feet as they approached.
‘Morning, Doctor,’ said Jago. ‘What have we got?’
‘Good morning, Detective Inspector. Young woman, mid to late twenties, I should say. Your constable seems to suspect foul play, but she could easily just have been caught by the blast of a bomb. No obvious signs of interference, but I expect you’ll want to get the pathologist to look at her. A proper examination in the mortuary will tell you more than I can from crawling round on my hands and knees in this mess, but I’ll leave that decision in your capable hands. In the meantime, I’ve certified her dead, and if you don’t mind I’d rather get back to my breakfast. I’m getting a bit too old and creaky for these early morning calls.’
With that he snapped his bag shut, dusted his trousers down with his hand and made his way cautiously across the sloping debris towards a black Rover saloon parked on the other side of the road.
‘Short and sweet,’ said Cradock.
‘Indeed,’ said Jago. ‘A man with his mind on his pension, I suspect.’ 17
He turned to the pair of police officers. Stannard’s expression was attentive, as if he were waiting for his next instruction, but Price looked uncomfortable.
‘Are you all right, Constable?’ said Jago.
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir,’ said Price. ‘Just feeling a little queasy.’
‘Not your first body, is it?’
‘Well … It’s just … a young woman like that, sir, lying there dead. It was just a bit of a …’ His voice trailed off, uncertainly.
‘PC Stannard,’ said Jago, ‘I suggest you take your colleague for a cup of tea. I expect you’ve both had a demanding night. But two things before you go.’ He turned to Price. ‘First, you go and find a phone that’s working, call the station and tell them to get Dr Anderson the pathologist down here as quickly as he can manage – immediately, if possible.’
Price set off, scrambling back down the mound of wreckage towards the road.
‘And second, sir?’ said Stannard.
‘Second, tell me: who are these men who found the body?’
‘That lot over there, sir – or two of them, anyway, the ones on the right,’ said Stannard, gesturing with his thumb in the direction of the group of men standing on the pavement. ‘They’re part of the heavy rescue party that’s been working here during the night. They told the ARP warden, and he found me and Price pretty sharpish and brought us down here. Shall I fetch them over?’ 18
‘No,’ said Jago. ‘Just tell the two who found her to come up here, then go and get your cup of tea when Price comes back. We’ll manage.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Stannard, and headed off in the direction Price had taken. Jago saw him speak to two of the men. The constable pointed back up the heap, and they began to clamber up it.
Both of the rescue men were clad in blue dungarees and flat caps, so filthy as to make the departed police constables look relatively respectable. Jago scrutinised them as they approached. He estimated the taller of the two to be almost six feet in height and in his late forties. The second man was shorter and looked a little younger.
It was only when they drew close that the bigger man’s face became clearly visible. Jago stepped forward to stand squarely in the man’s path, his arms crossed.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Now look who’s turned up like a bad penny. The Good Samaritan himself, eh? Fancy seeing you here.’ He peered into the man’s face. ‘Just happened to find a body, did you? Simple as that. If anyone else had told me I’d believe them. But nothing’s ever simple with you, is it? Can you think of one good reason why I should believe you?’
CHAPTER THREE
Jago looked round to see where Cradock was and beckoned him to his side.
‘Let me introduce you. Detective Constable Cradock, you may not have come across this gentleman before, but he and I have spent a considerable amount of time together over the years, one way or another. Mostly in the nick. Isn’t that right, Harry?’
The man’s only response was a look of what Cradock took to be pained incomprehension.
‘Henry Parker, Esquire, of this parish,’ said Jago. ‘Commonly known as Harry.’
He took a close look at Parker’s clothing, as if inspecting him on parade.
‘Well I never. I have to say, Harry, you’re the last person I’d expect to see out here rescuing people. I thought you had better things to do at night.’
‘Oh, please, Mr Jago,’ said Parker. ‘That was a long time ago. You must know I gave all that up years 20back. Straight as a die, I am, so help me.’
‘I had heard rumours, Harry, but you’ll forgive me for being sceptical. Policeman’s habit, you know. So how do you make your living nowadays, if it’s not climbing in through the windows of the unsuspecting public and relieving them of their valuables?’
‘I clean them, don’t I? The windows, I mean – I’m a window cleaner. Least I was, till old Adolf started going round smashing them all. Things’ve gone a bit slack in the window-cleaning business of late. I still do some, mind – proper regular work, but it’s mainly for businesses, the ones who have to keep looking smart. Anyway, I’ve got involved in this heavy rescue lark now. It pays a bit, and I’ll have you know, Detective Inspector, I’m saving people’s lives. Repaying my debt to society, you might say.’
‘Very noble. You must be putting in some pretty long hours if you’re repaying your debt to society.’ He looked Harry up and down. ‘Looks like you’ve put on a bit of weight since I last saw you, too.’
‘Yes, it’s my wife’s cooking.’
‘So you’re not the one who goes crawling through cellars and wreckage to rescue people, are you?’
‘No, Mr Jago, I leave that to the skinny blokes. I may not be quite as fit as I used to be, but I’m still good with ladders and with lifting and shifting. I can drive too – got a lorry licence six years ago when they first came out, and I’m the only one in the squad who’s got one. So it’s my job to drive the truck.’
‘Man of many talents. And where are you living now?’21
‘47 Hemsworth Street. And before you ask, the furniture’s all paid for, and I’m up to date with the rent too.’
‘Very good. Now perhaps you could introduce me to your colleague.’
The shorter man standing a few feet behind Parker pinched the short remainder of his cigarette between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand and slowly took it from his mouth, blowing a lazy stream of smoke upwards into the air. Jago wondered whether this was something the man had picked up from a movie.
‘No need, Harry,’ said the man. ‘I can speak for myself.’
‘By all means,’ said Jago. ‘Could you give us your name, please?’
‘Jenkins. Stanley Jenkins, but my friends call me Stan.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jenkins. And you’re a member of this rescue party too?’
‘Yes, I’m in the same boat as Harry, really. Before they decided to have this war I was a roofer, but the government’s pretty much stopped people building anything now, so it’s all gone a bit quiet in my line of work too.’
‘You’ll be good with heights and ladders, then, like Harry, if you’re a roofer. Am I right?’
‘Oh yes, definitely. But I don’t drive. Never had enough money to run a car, and never had occasion to drive a truck.’
‘Thank you, Mr Jenkins. Now perhaps one of you would be good enough to tell me what happened here. How did you find the body?’22
The two men exchanged a quick glance. Harry Parker spoke first.
‘We were called out at about eight o’clock last night, not long after the air raid started. These houses had been hit, so we were sent down here to dig out anyone who might be trapped and generally tidy the site up a bit, make it safe – prop up dangerous walls and suchlike.’
‘And was anyone trapped?’
‘Yes, we got a couple of old dears out from the first house that isn’t there any more, if you see what I mean. They were the only people the ARP warden knew were unaccounted for – until we found them, that is – but we had a good look round after that in case there were any passing strays that had got caught out in the raid. You can easily miss someone, you know. Sometimes these days all you find is a few bits.’
‘Quite. So what happened next?’
‘We got a message telling us to go and help at another site.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Just before ten, as I recall. Is that right, Stan?’
‘Yeah, I think so,’ said Jenkins.
‘And what did you do then?’ said Jago.
‘We went, of course,’ said Parker. ‘It’s not up to us where we go and what we do. We just go where we’re told. And we have to be quick about it too. We don’t spend half our time standing about doing nothing, like your lot.’23
‘All right, Harry. But you haven’t told us about the body yet. What happened?’
‘Well, that’s just it. That’s what I couldn’t understand. When we left, there was no sign of her. No sign at all. I call that fishy.’
‘Fishy? If what I know of you’s anything to go by, things only start getting fishy when you turn up, Harry.’
‘Oh, come on, Mr Jago, that’s a bit harsh.’
‘I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you. That was true twenty years ago, and nothing’s happened since to make me change my mind. In fact the only thing I can see that’s changed is your waist measurement, so I probably couldn’t even throw you that far now. Why should I take anything you say as gospel?’
‘But I told you,’ said Parker. ‘I’ve changed. Honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, that’s me.’
‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, then,’ said Jago. ‘Now tell me what makes you think there was something fishy going on.’
Parker drew himself up straight, like a man vindicated in court.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘It was like this, you see.’
He turned to Cradock.
‘You going to write all this down?’
‘Yes,’ said Cradock. ‘Don’t you worry about that. Look – pencil, notebook, all ready.’
‘Good. I expect this is going to be crucial evidence.’
‘Get on with it, Harry,’ said Jago.
‘All right, all right,’ said Parker. ‘So anyway, we get the 24call and off we go to the other place – down Beckton Road it was, about half a mile away. Nasty business – there was this woman who’d decided to ignore the siren and stay in the house. She’d got a bed downstairs, thinking it’d be safer. As it was, of course, the house was hit and collapsed on top of her. We had a job clearing the stuff away so we could get to her – the whole upstairs and the roof had fallen in. But she was one of the lucky ones – the blast had blown a wardrobe across the bed, and that’d kept most of it off her, and she survived. Different story next door, though. The family who lived there had gone down into their Anderson shelter and copped it – the whole lot of them. Mum, Dad and three nippers, all dead. Very messy, it was. So that kept us there quite a while, you see.’
‘And then what?’
‘As soon as we’d finished there we shot back up here to finish off tidying things up, like I said. And before you ask, I know exactly what time we got here, because I was wondering how close we were to knocking-off time. It was ten past five this morning. We’d only been on the site a few minutes when we came across the body – it must’ve been twenty past five at the latest. That’s when we started thinking there’d been some funny business going on.’
‘Funny business?’
‘The thing is, I know for a fact that that woman wasn’t there when we left this site at ten o’clock last night. So how come she’s suddenly there dead at five o’clock the next morning?’25
‘Could she have been killed by a bomb that fell after you’d gone?’
‘That’s what I thought at first, especially on account of there being that debris on her.’
‘What debris was that?’
‘There was a bit of wooden rafter lying across her legs and a couple of bricks on top of her arm—’
‘There wasn’t when I saw her,’ Jago interrupted.
Parker shrugged his shoulders.
‘Probably that doctor feller moved it so he could get a better look. I don’t know. Looked to me like he was in a hurry.’
‘Carry on,’ said Jago.
‘So anyway, I’m standing there looking at this corpse and thinking the same thing as what you said – there must’ve been another bomb. Only I’m thinking there couldn’t have been, because the site looks just the same as it did before. She was lying there, like she is now, with that bit of wall still standing behind her, and everything all around looked the same as it did when we left it. In other words, the place was all blown up, but no more blown up than it had been at ten o’clock last night.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘We went to find the warden, told him what we’d found. We checked with him about bombs too. He says the last bomb that fell here was at five-and-twenty past seven yesterday evening. Categorical, he was – he has to fill a form in, you know, and report the time.’
‘Yes, I know.’26
‘So I’m thinking, if the body wasn’t there when we left at ten o’clock last night, and there’d been no more bombs here since, but here she is dead at five in the morning, there’s definitely something fishy going on. I told Stan here to go and find a copper, pronto, which he did. Those two lads of yours turned up pretty quick, and I suppose they’re the ones who got you down here.’
Jago was about to conclude the conversation when he saw a familiar figure approaching from the direction of the road.
‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said to Parker and Jenkins. ‘You’ve been most helpful. Detective Constable Cradock will make a note of your details. We’ll need a statement from you later.’
Jago left them with Cradock and began to walk back across the bomb site to meet the new arrival.
‘Good morning, Dr Anderson. Good of you to get here so quickly.’
‘Morning, Inspector,’ said the doctor. ‘I’m told you have a body for me.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ said Jago. ‘A young woman. Witnesses’ testimony suggests it wasn’t the air raid that killed her, so I’d like to know what did. She’s just up there.’
‘Very well. I’ll take a little look at her and the surroundings, then I’ll have the body taken to the mortuary for examination.’
‘Thank you. I’ll just check whether DC Cradock has finished with the witnesses and then we’ll join you.’27
Jago turned back to see Cradock standing alone, writing in his notebook. The two rescue men had already left.
The heavy rescue unit’s Austin three-ton lorry was parked on Tinto Road. The other members of the squad had loaded their ladders, wheelbarrows, baulks of timber and tools onto the truck’s open back, coiled their ropes and hung them over the ladder rack behind the cab. Half a dozen of them were now sitting on the wooden benches that ran along both sides of the back, while two others stacked the baskets used for moving debris and loaded them into a corner of the truck.
One of the two turned round as he heard Harry Parker and Stan Jenkins approaching.
‘You took your time gassing to those coppers,’ he said. ‘Thought you were never coming back.’
‘Sorry, lads,’ said Harry. ‘Wasn’t much we could do about that. Still, all done and dusted now. Back to the depot?’
‘I should think so.’
‘Off we go, then. Should be there in two ticks.’
‘About time too,’ said the other man. He tossed the last basket onto the back of the lorry. ‘I want my breakfast.’
Harry walked round to the front of the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat, while Stan got in on the passenger side. Their two teammates clambered over the tailgate into the back of the truck and found themselves room to sit amidst an assortment of shovels, picks and crowbars.28
Harry started the engine and prepared to move off. As the vehicle began to move, he leant forward slightly and felt beneath his seat with his right hand. His fingers came into contact with a package wrapped in sacking. He smiled to himself. It was still there.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Here you are, dear,’ said the woman in the familiar navy blue serge uniform. Her face was tired, and she brushed away a wisp of greying hair that had escaped from under her bonnet. She looked down with a smile from inside the Salvation Army mobile canteen at the dishevelled pair of police constables standing on the pavement and placed a mug of hot tea on the fold-down counter that hung from the side of the vehicle. ‘Busy night tonight for you, eh?’
‘Not so quiet for you either, I should think,’ said Stannard. ‘And you’re not getting paid to be out here, are you?’
The woman laughed as she poured a second mug from the urn.
‘I don’t think I could do your job, even if I was.’
‘Not your cup of tea, then, as you might say?’
‘Most definitely not, Officer,’ she said. ‘Now, would you like a couple of currant buns too?’30
‘Thanks, love,’ said Stannard. He gave an appreciative nod and moved away, holding the two mugs with one hand and the buns with the other. It hadn’t taken long to find the mobile canteen. The Salvation Army volunteers tended to head for where the trouble was, and tonight they had parked just a few streets away, in a turning off Barking Road. He’d told Price to take the weight off his feet while he went to fetch them something to drink: the War Reserve constable looked as though the night’s work had taken it out of him.
He headed back to where he had left Price sitting on the kerb. A nice cuppa should put him right, he thought. And now that there was the prospect of getting a bit of rest, he began to notice how tired he was himself.
He picked his way carefully through the clutch of exhausted-looking ARP workers and bombed-out residents who had gathered near the mobile canteen.
‘Ruddy air raids,’ he said. Out of habit he moderated his language in the hearing of the public, although the dazed faces of those made newly homeless suggested they would neither notice nor care if he turned the air blue. He found Price and led him farther down the street, to a spot where they would not be overheard. ‘I reckon we’re off duty now, so we’re entitled to a bit of peace and quiet.’
They perched side by side on a low brick wall, and Stannard passed a mug of tea and a bun to his colleague. Price took them, but his mind seemed elsewhere.
‘These air raids,’ said Stannard. ‘I can’t be doing 31with them. Get on my wick, they do. And the perishing blackout. I nearly did myself a mischief last week. Did you hear about that butcher in Plaistow who had a light on in the flat over his shop in the middle of an air raid?’
Price nodded slowly, as if making an effort to catch up with the conversation.
‘Like a lighthouse, it was,’ Stannard continued. ‘And he’d gone out somewhere and locked it up after him. Nothing for it but to break in – nearly caught my wrist on the broken glass, I did. People like that should be made to do compulsory roof-spotting duties. See how they like it with incendiaries landing all round them. They might think twice then about lighting the street up and leading the bombers in.’
He was surprised to hear a quiet laugh from Price. The tea must be doing him good, he thought.
‘Was he done for it?’ said Price, sounding more himself now.
‘The butcher? Oh yes, fined thirty pounds at the magistrates’ court, he was. More than six weeks’ pay for a copper, but not for the likes of him, I should reckon. Probably making a bit on the side, putting a pound or two of best beef under the counter for his favourite customers – the ones who don’t mind slipping him a few bob extra to get a treat for supper. Sometimes I wonder why we bother.’
‘Hanging’s too good for them: that’s what I say,’ said Price. Something about Stannard’s story seemed to have spiked his interest and brought his mind back 32from wherever it had been. ‘I mean, is that what we fought the war for?’
‘Exactly,’ said Stannard. ‘Mind you, I was too young for the last one.’ He did a quick mental calculation of how old Price had probably been during the Great War. ‘Were you in it, then?’
‘Yes, I was in the army. Two and a half years I did – terrible times. Biggest mistake we ever made, that war.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Fighting Germany, that’s what. I mean, look at it: they’re like us, aren’t they? Hard-working, serious people, civilised. How did we end up on the same side as the French and the Russians? We should never have let ourselves be talked into getting involved in a European war in the first place, and certainly not a war against the Germans.’
‘Yes, that’s what my mum says. My dad was in the war too, but he was killed at Passchendaele. I don’t remember him at all – I was only two when he went off, and he never came back. Three hundred thousand casualties on our side in that battle, they reckon. My mum says it was all a stupid waste.’
‘It was. They said it was a war for civilisation, but I think we’d all have been better off if there’d never been a war. And now look where it’s got us: sitting here in the gutter while everything people have worked for all their lives is burning around us.’
‘So do you reckon we’ve gone and made the same mistake again?’33
Price didn’t answer immediately. He sipped his tea, as if thinking about the question.
‘That’s not for me to say. I’m not saying that’s what I think, but I know there’s plenty who do.’
‘My mum says we’ve only got ourselves to blame after the way we treated them at Versailles. She says we tried to ruin them and now we’re suffering the consequences.’
‘Reaping the whirlwind, some might say.’
‘You can say that again. We’ve seen a bit of a whirlwind tonight, all right.’
‘Yes. Whatever people say about this war, I can’t help thinking it could all so easily have been very different.’
‘Certainly couldn’t have ended up much worse,’ said Stannard. ‘I mean, they’ve beaten us in Norway, beaten us in France and now it looks as though they’re doing their damnedest to beat us here too.’
He downed the last mouthful of tea from his mug and brushed a few crumbs off his tunic in a futile gesture towards tidiness.
‘Still, won’t do to sit around here feeling sorry for ourselves, will it? Time for you to get home to your wife, and for me to try and bag a hot bath at the section house.’
‘I’ll take the mugs back to the Sally Army,’ said Price, picking them up from the wall as he got to his feet.
‘Thanks,’ said Stannard, peering up at him. ‘Feeling a bit better now, are you? You didn’t look at all well when we found that poor girl’s body.’
‘Yes, I’m all right, thanks. There’s nothing to worry about.’34
‘Good. Glad to hear it. Got to keep your pecker up, haven’t you? Mind you, I’d have thought you were used to seeing dead bodies, what with being in the army in the war and all. Wouldn’t have thought it would affect you like that.’
‘Yes, well never mind. I just felt a bit ill, that’s all. Is that all right?’
‘Of course,’ said Stannard. ‘Just being curious. Sorry I asked.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Jago did not enjoy these times. The post-mortem room at Queen Mary’s Hospital always seemed to carry the chill of the grave. The stone floor and the white glazed tiles that lined its walls were cold and unwelcoming, and the stark electric light exposed its emptiness. There was no hope here: it was like walking into a tomb.
He thought of the crypt at St John’s Church, where the dead, their spirits having flown who knew where, were abandoned to decay slowly into dust. This place had the same feel. The only difference was that here they were allowed neither burial nor decay until the due process of medicine and the law saw fit to release them.
During his first spell at the front in France there’d been a Catholic in the platoon. A gentle and dutiful man, he used to talk about Purgatory – sometimes he’d seemed more concerned about that than about dying. As Jago sat in the trench listening to him explaining the word, it had seemed like a kind of lostness, a hovering midway 36between life and death. Even then he didn’t like the idea, didn’t like things being unresolved – and it was the same now, he realised. He liked the case to be closed, the matter resolved one way or the other. No loose ends.
This mortuary was supposed to be part of the process of settling the uncertain, but it seemed to him more than anything another place of lostness. The young woman whom he had not met until she was dead was lost to life, lost to her family, to her lover if she had one. Right now she didn’t even have a name. Whoever she was, all that remained of her was the mortal flesh she had once animated with tears, laughter, a smile, a sigh, now laid out in this municipal crypt, this repository of the dead that was as cold and lifeless as she was.
He followed Dr Anderson into the room and his nose caught the familiar mingled odours of death and disinfectant. He stopped short. Facing him were two shelves loaded with ranks of naked bodies, each with a label tied to its big toe. Anderson turned and caught the surprise on his face.
‘First time you’ve been here since the air raids began, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ said Jago.
‘Things have got a bit busier, as you can see. Nearly all of these are casualties of the raids. We don’t even have enough shrouds to cover them. Just having to make do, like everyone else.’
Jago composed himself and followed the doctor to the post-mortem table. His boss, Divisional Detective Inspector Eric Soper, was already there, standing silent 37and sober-faced, with Cradock looking uncomfortable alongside him. Probably worried the DDI might ask him a difficult question, Jago thought.
With a brief nod to Cradock and a ‘Morning, sir’ to Soper he took his place beside the table. One small mercy, he thought: at least the mortuary assistant had found a sheet to cover the corpse. By the time Jago was nineteen he’d seen enough mutilated bodies for a lifetime; twenty and more years on he had no desire to examine whatever injuries this poor woman had suffered in more detail than was necessary for his investigation.
He hoped Anderson’s findings would be brief. To his relief, the doctor began his report.
‘Not a lot to say about this one, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘As you know, the body was found on a site in Canning Town that had been bombed overnight—’
‘Yes, yes,’ the DDI interrupted. ‘But is there any evidence of foul play?’
‘If you’ll bear with me, Mr Soper,’ said Anderson with a smile that Jago thought was more generous than his chief deserved, ‘I’ll come to that in a moment.’
‘Get on with it, then,’ said Soper. ‘Some of us have got a lot of work to do today.’
‘I imagine so,’ said Anderson.
Jago suppressed a smile. He was surprised that a doctor as young as Anderson, who looked not a day over thirty, should be so composed under fire from Soper. But perhaps there were Sopers in the medical world too, he surmised. The man had probably had his own tartars to 38contend with. Or maybe you became a bit philosophical about power and rank when you spent your days fishing around in dead bodies. He reined his thoughts in as Anderson resumed his report.
‘The first thing I would note,’ said the pathologist, ‘is that there’s very little sign of injury on the body. The main wound is to the back of her head, and I found particles of brick and small splinters of wood in it. Given the fact that she was found on the ruins of a bombed house, much of which consisted of brick fragments and smashed timbers, this in itself is not conclusive. I understand the police surgeon who first attended the scene suggested her death could have been caused by a bomb blast, and this would indeed be possible. Since the air raids began, we’ve seen a number of casualties found dead without a mark on their bodies – they’ve died because the blast has effectively suffocated them. Such a blast could have thrown her back onto the rubble, where she could have injured her head on landing.’
‘So are you saying it was a bomb that killed her, not murder?’ said Soper.
‘No. I’m saying that would be a reasonable deduction, were it not for my next observation, which is a second wound to the left side of the head. This one has some splinters of wood but no brick, which is curious but not something from which one can draw any reliable conclusion.’
‘But if you can’t conclude anything from it, how can that mean it’s murder?’39
‘I’m sorry. I should have said that my second observation is about other injuries, and that there are two parts to it.’
‘Good grief.’
Jago was finding the scene unexpectedly entertaining, but thought it prudent to try to steer the conversation in a more fruitful direction, if only to save Dr Anderson from possible injury to his own person.
‘And would part two be the part that suggests the possibility of murder?’ he asked.
‘That’s for you to decide, Inspector. The second part of my observation concerning other injuries is that I find on the body a particular pattern of bruising which I believe is not inconsistent with strangulation.’
‘Can you explain?’
‘There are fingertip bruises in the muscles on both sides of the voice box, and the upper horn of the hyoid bone is fractured.’
Anderson reached a hand out towards the sheet.
‘Would you like—’
‘No,’ said Jago quickly, ‘I don’t want to see, thank you very much. You don’t need to show me. I’ll take your professional word for it.’
‘This damage would be consistent with her having been strangled, and from the front rather than from behind. That in turn could indicate that the victim was lying on her back at the time, particularly since there is bruising on her upper body consistent with the application of pressure by a knee, together with more 40bruising on her back that I would expect to see if she’d been lying on a pile of loose bricks and other debris, as she was, when that pressure was applied.’
‘So the murderer knelt on her while she was lying on her back on the rubble and strangled her?’ said Jago.
‘So it would seem.’
‘And how does the wound to the back of the head tie in with that?’
‘The bleeding from the wound would indicate that she suffered that injury before death, so you might choose to infer that the assailant knocked her to the ground before attempting to strangle her, but I cannot be certain of that.’
‘And is that all?’
‘Just one other thing. There are more bruises on the left of her neck than on the right, which would suggest that whoever strangled her was right-handed.’
‘That narrows it down, then,’ said Cradock under his breath.
‘What was that, Constable?’ said Anderson.
‘Nothing, Doctor. Just thinking out loud.’
‘Before we go,’ said Jago, ‘was there any indication that she’d been interfered with?’
‘Interference of a sexual nature, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘I found no evidence of sexual violence, but there is evidence of sexual experience.’
‘Would that be recent activity?’
‘Not so recent as to have been part of the assault, but beyond that I can’t tell.’41
‘And what’s your estimate of the time of death? At this stage that’s more important to me than knowing precisely how she died.’
‘Judging by her body temperature and the fact that she’d been lying outside on a September night for some time, I would estimate that death occurred at some point between nine o’clock and midnight last night.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jago. ‘That’s very helpful. Isn’t that right, sir?’ he added, turning to Soper.
‘Yes, very good, Doctor, very good,’ said Soper. ‘I think that concludes our business here. We’ll leave you to clear up while I have a word with the detective inspector. Come along, John, let’s get some fresh air.’
Jago headed straight for the door and stepped outside, but found himself waiting for Soper, who he assumed was giving some parting advice to the pathologist. For once, he was pleased at the prospect of further conversation with the DDI, if only because it got him out of the mortuary. It was not a place he liked to be. It brought back memories – being taken at the age of fourteen to see a dead body for the first time when his father died. The shock of witnessing death where he had always known life had left a deep mark in him. He knew it was his dad, and yet it wasn’t – he was there and yet not there. Within another five years Jago had seen men ripped open and torn apart by bullet, shell and shrapnel, and knew more than he’d ever wanted to know about the raw and bloody detail of human flesh. Ever since those days he’d 42had no difficulty picturing a heart that no longer beat, lungs that no longer breathed, a stomach that would never again be gripped by fear. But the departure of life from a body he could not understand.
He had a vivid childhood memory of an aunt who’d shocked him by talking about the fires of hell as the destination of the dead. But the mortuary he’d just been standing in, he thought – that was where they really ended up, and nothing could be farther removed from the picture she’d painted. For him now, fire and brimstone meant the savage insanity of battle, that devil’s playground where the evil one man can do to another was loosed from all restraint. That was hell. He wondered whether the room he’d just left was a more accurate picture of the lostness of death – a cold and empty eternity of regret.
The click of the mortuary door interrupted his train of thought, and the DDI appeared at his side.
‘So, John, you’ve no idea who this woman is?’
Jago reeled his mind back to the case.
‘No, sir. No identity card on her, and nothing else to identify her. If she had a handbag, that’s gone missing too.’
‘Could it be a robbery, then? A robbery that went wrong?’
‘I really couldn’t say. We’ve got nothing to go on yet.’
‘And strangled, that doctor says. That sounds a bit more deliberate.’
‘Quite possibly, sir, yes.’43
Soper appeared to ponder Jago’s words for a short while, then continued.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about this Dr Anderson. A bright chap, judging by what some people say. Is that right?’
‘Yes, sir – a rising star, by all accounts.’
‘Hasn’t made a proper name for himself yet, though, has he?’
‘Only a matter of time, sir, I should think.’
‘Hmm, I’m still not sure about him. He looks too young. Are you sure he knows his stuff? You know what it’ll be like if this gets to court and it turns out he doesn’t – counsel for the defence will tear him apart.’
‘I could imagine him giving them a run for their money.’
‘That’s as may be. But when it comes to pathologists giving evidence in a murder case, juries like to see a big name from one of the London hospitals blinding them with science.’
‘Judges too, I believe,’ said Jago. ‘Put an eminent pathologist in the witness box and some of them treat him like Moses down from the mountain, that’s my impression. Pity the poor defendant if a professor’s decided he’s guilty.’
‘At least we get a conviction. With this young Anderson we can’t be sure. He just doesn’t look the part.’
‘Perhaps justice would be better served if we told him to wear a top hat and spats in court.’
Soper looked askance at Jago.
‘What? Of course not. That’s not what I mean and 44you know it. All I’m saying is we need a pathologist who can put together a cast-iron case, or we’ll be laughed out of court.’
‘And a true case, sir. If you want my opinion, I’d rather put Dr Anderson up for the prosecution than some of those big names you were referring to. I’ve heard he’s very highly regarded by his peers, and from the little I’ve seen of his work I’d be happy to stake my reputation on his evidence. He may be only at Queen Mary’s Hospital now, but I think he could run rings round some of those old buffers. Besides, there’s a war on, and we should be thankful we’ve got him just up the road.’
‘Well, I just hope he knows what he’s doing, that’s all.’
Soper looked at his watch. ‘Time we were on our way, I think. Let’s walk back to the station.’
He set off in the direction of West Ham Lane, with Jago falling into step beside him.
‘There’s something else I wanted to ask you,’ said Soper. ‘How are you getting on with that American?’
‘The journalist, sir?’
‘Yes, the newspaper woman. Are you telling her what she needs to know? And more to the point, telling her what the Ministry of Information needs her to know? That fellow from the ministry who brought her down here said it’s essential to the war effort to paint the right picture for the American public.’
‘She certainly seems interested in telling the truth, sir, if that’s what you mean.’45
‘What do you mean, “If that’s what I mean”? Of course we want her to tell the truth – it just needs to be our truth.’
‘She’s a clever lady, sir. I’m not sure she’d fall for it if I tried to pull the wool over her eyes, especially when she’s here and can see for herself what’s happening.’
‘Just watch your step, that’s all I’m saying. No spreading alarm and despondency, especially to her. What sort of things is she asking about?’
‘Well, I haven’t seen her or heard anything from her for a few days – I believe she’s gone to Liverpool to report on the effects of the bombing there. I dare say the censors will only let her talk about “a town in the north-west of England” or “a north-west coastal district”, but I suppose to American readers that might not sound as absurd as it does to us. I did get a note from her yesterday, though.’
‘And?’
‘She said she wants to write something about the effects of the blackout on the level of crime – the fact that it’s gone up since the war started. She’s arranged to come and see me next week to talk about it.’
‘Fine. No doubt you can reassure her that we’re coping with the challenge.’
‘She also said she’s interested in all the talk of a fifth column. Wants to know if we’ve seen anything like that going on since the air raids started. Anything we can talk about, of course. After what happened with Quisling in Norway when the Germans took over, I imagine the Americans are wondering how many 46similar characters might be waiting in the wings here. I’m supposed to be having lunch with her tomorrow, so I might find out more then.’
‘Fifth column? Good Lord! You be careful what you say about that. And don’t go treading on Special Branch’s toes: they won’t take kindly to having a detective inspector from West Ham quoted in the American press on a subject like that.’
‘I don’t think I’ll get on the wrong side of the Branch, sir.’
‘Yes, of course, I was forgetting. You’ve got a foot in the door there, haven’t you? When was it you did that secondment?’
‘In 1936, sir, during the fighting in Spain. Liaison with the French police, to do with arms smuggling.’
‘Yes, yes. Don’t tell me any more; I don’t want to know. It was because you had the lingo, wasn’t it?’
‘I like to think it wasn’t just because I speak French, sir, but yes, that was part of it.’
