An Empty Death (60 page)

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Authors: Laura Wilson

BOOK: An Empty Death
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‘But ...’
‘All right. Why don’t you tell me where she was killed?’
‘The operating theatre. One of the unused ones.’
‘Which one?’
‘I . . .’ Defeated, Strang shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Inspector. You didn’t believe me from the first, did you? About Reynolds, I mean. Why? I don’t understand.’
‘I shouldn’t tell you this,’ said Stratton, ‘but I shall because you and I have . . . well, we have some things between us, don’t we? The reason I didn’t believe you was that Fay Marchant as good as told me she’d killed Reynolds, only I was too stupid to realise it at the time. She knew, you see, that Reynolds had been hit with a brick - information that was kept confidential. Hospital gossip is one thing, and I don’t doubt that everyone knew the man had been killed by blows to the head, but - although I suppose one could make a guess at the weapon - that wasn’t on Dr Byrne’s notes, because it wasn’t known for certain at the time of the post-mortem, and all that the newspapers reported was that the death had taken place in suspicious circumstances. When I asked Nurse Marchant how she knew, she said, “Dr Dacre told me.” Now, if Marchant had known that the man she knew as Dr Dacre was also Todd the mortuary attendant, that would make sense - Todd could have overheard something Byrne said - but she didn’t know that. So, Mr Strang, I’m afraid it looks as though she was prepared to drop you right in it, doesn’t it?’
Strang stared at him. The man’s face, where it wasn’t bruised, was chalk white.
‘You look shocked,’ Stratton continued. ‘You know, it occurs to me that your whole career has been based on the fact that people believe what they see - the uniform, the authority, the myth, and so on. But you believed it, too, didn’t you? You believed - just as I did, I have to admit - that, because Fay was a nurse, and, moreover, a beautiful, well-spoken girl with a gentle manner, she must be an angel. Caring, healing, selfless . . . she could do no wrong. You may have fooled her into believing you were a doctor, Mr Strang, but she fooled you, too.’
As he left the interview room and walked down the corridor, Stratton wondered about his exact reasons for telling the man about Fay. Although he told himself that it was six of one and half a dozen of the other, he knew that there was enough ‘getting his own back’ in there to dislike himself thoroughly for having done it, but without finding himself able to regret it.
Seventy-Nine
‘
C
all from Chief Superintendent Dewhurst, sir.’ ‘Put him through.’ Stratton, glad to be back in his office, settled into his chair.
‘Stratton?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good news at last. The unidentified prints from the mortuary are a match for this Strang chap. We couldn’t do anything with the partials from the underside of the office desk, I’m afraid, but Strang’s prints do match the ones found on the bookshelf. Not much to go on, but nevertheless—’
‘I have a confession, sir.’ Stratton was careful to keep any hint of triumph out of his voice. ‘From Dr Dacre, formerly of the Middlesex Hospital, who turns out not to be Dr Dacre at all, but Strang. He killed Dr Byrne.’
‘Have you indeed? That’s wonderful news. Congratulations, Stratton. I look forward to hearing about it.’
At least, Stratton thought, as he replaced the receiver, Dewhurst’s good wishes were genuine, whereas DCI Lamb’s were, as usual, grudging. Frank Byrne had thanked him, too - relieved, Stratton thought, that his father’s death would not be considered suicide, although having a parent murdered surely wasn’t much of an alternative . . . On balance, Stratton thought he would have preferred the former, as at least one’s father would have decided when to end his life and not had it snatched from him.
Fay Marchant, in custody in Cheltenham, charged - for the time being - with obstructing the police, would be fetched tomorrow. Meantime, Lamb, despite the news of Mussolini’s death and the rest, was kicking up a fuss about how Piccadilly looked like a military slum and how half his men were deployed elsewhere while the cells were full to bursting. All of which was true - the cells were bunged up with drunk and disorderly soldiers of various nationalities who’d been celebrating prematurely, and whose inebriated roaring was issuing up the stairwell, as well as the usual complement of thugs, prostitutes of both sexes, burglars and the like, all of whom seemed intent on joining the fun. The thing was, according to Lamb, Stratton was the only person available to sort them all out, which, as well as being highly irregular, was a bloody awful prospect.
Stratton and Ballard descended the stairs together, accompanied by a rousing chorus, sung to the tune of ‘What A Friend We Have In Jesus’, of:
Life is full of disappointments,
Dull and empty as a tomb,
Father’s got a strictured penis,
Mother has a fallen womb . . .
They found the custody sergeant, who, apparently able to ignore the racket, was silently mouthing the captions of a comic confiscated from one of the Yanks, lost in the vividly coloured world of simple violence. Arliss, sitting beside him, head tilted back to rest against the wall, had his eyes half closed. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ yelled Stratton over the din. ‘Waiting for someone to feed you grapes?’
Uncle Ted has been deported
For a homosexual crime . . .
‘Sorry, sir.’ Arliss’s eyes opened wide at the sight of Stratton’s battered face. ‘Quite a shiner you got there, sir, if you don’t mind my saying.’
‘Thank you, Arliss. Come on, let’s get this lot sorted out. Who’s first?’
Sister Sue has just aborted,
For the forty-second time . . .
Despite Ballard’s strenuous efforts, and Arliss’s feeble ones, to get the occupants of the cells to shut up, the caterwauling broke out at intervals for the rest of the day, and, by the time Stratton left for the evening, the stale air, smoke, din, general aggravation and crudity had given him a blinding headache.
He’d decided, by the time he got off the bus, that he might benefit from a half-pint at the Swan and a quiet chinwag with Donald, if he was there. Unfortunately, Reg was there, too, and after half an hour of bumptious, ill-informed speculation about (a) how Stratton came by his black eye, and (b) when we would get to Berlin and capture, or possibly kill, Hitler, he decided it was high time to collect the children from Doris’s and go home.
He stood at the scullery window, watching Monica and Pete mucking about in the garden and wishing that Jenny were standing beside him. When the children had gone up to bed, he switched on the wireless and listened to the report of Mr Churchill’s remarks to the House of Commons, wondering if there would be an official announcement of some sort about the end of the war. At some point, he must have dozed off, because he woke up to find that the wireless was still on and Monica was standing in front of him in her nightgown, looking concerned.
‘Are you all right, Dad? You look awful.’
Stratton rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’m fine, love. What time is it?’
Monica glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Ten past midnight. Hitler’s dead, Dad.’
‘Is he?’
‘It was on the wireless. Just now. Do you think it’s true?’
‘Well, if it was on the wireless . . .’
‘But they might just think he’s dead. What if he’s pretending, and they’ve hidden him somewhere? He could wait for a few years and come back, and then there’ll be another war.’
‘I don’t think so, love. Apart from anything else, he wouldn’t have enough soldiers and tanks and things.’
‘But how do they know it’s really him? It might be just a man who looks like him.’
‘I should think they made sure before they said anything.’
‘They said another man was in charge of Germany now. Hitler chose him specially. He’s an admiral, and he says they’re going to go on fighting.’
Stratton looked at his daughter’s worried face, and said, ‘He might say that, but they’re beaten. They can’t go on fighting.’
‘Can’t they?’ Monica sounded doubtful.
‘No, love. They’ll have to surrender.’
‘But we’re still fighting Japan, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, but that can’t last much longer. Not now.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ Stratton stood up, easing the crick in his neck. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Bedtime. We’ll find out all about it tomorrow.’
Eighty
I
n Pentonville, two days later, lying on his back in a cell, on a bed made from wooden boards, a thin coir mattress and pillow, canvas sheets and rough, stained blankets, Strang stared into the clanging, stinking darkness. This was worse than the police cells - it was like being locked in a safe. As if he was a thing and not a person at all. A number. He’d be a number for what remained of his life - he had no great hopes for the trial - with the prison smell of sweat and shit permeating his clothes and skin. They’d taken away his belt, his shoelaces and even the buttons off his coat. He supposed they must do that to everyone, just in case.
He’d failed. Of course he had. Strang would always fail . . . Of course Fay hadn’t loved him, of course it was all pretence - she’d known, unconsciously, that he was not Dacre, not fit to be loved, and, ultimately, she had despised him. He was worthless. And he’d thought he was trying to protect her, when all the time the big policeman had known . . . He saw that, now. All along, Stratton had wanted his confession for Byrne, and he’d also wanted to make absolutely sure that Fay hadn’t known him when he was Todd . . . And he’d fallen for it. He’d only stumbled across Reynolds’s body because, unable to sleep and restless as hell, he’d decided there was enough light to take himself off for a walk. Talking to Stratton, he’d been so confused that he’d got the timing all wrong . . .
With Fay, it had been love at first sight. He had seen what he wanted to see. Even when she’d told him about Reynolds, even when Stratton had told him about the abortion . . . he’d made excuses for her: it couldn’t have been her fault, she must have been driven to it, she was disturbed in her mind . . . But the fact remained that she’d tried to blame him. No matter how he tried to explain it away, that was the case. Perhaps his unconscious mind had known that Fay was a fraud all the time, and that was why he’d been so attracted to the bitch . . .
Aah, but she was so beautiful. If only she’d been real . . . There was nothing left. His mother . . . but he wasn’t letting her come near him if he could help it.
Men were shouting from cell to cell now, something about Hitler and the end of the war. The warders seemed to be making only a half-hearted effort to quell the noise. He wished they’d all shut up. He didn’t care about it. Why should he? He wasn’t going to be around for the peace.
He wondered where Fay was. In a cell like this one? What would happen to her?
He couldn’t think of Fay, of anything. I’m a blank, he said to himself. I’m nothing.
He turned onto his side, curled up, and closed his eyes. All I ever wanted, he thought, was to be part of the world.
Eighty-One
T
he following morning, Stratton bought a copy of the Daily
Mail
before boarding the bus. The headline read: ‘HITLER DEAD - DOENITZ APPOINTED FÜHRER’. That must be Monica’s admiral, thought Stratton. The German radio gave the
news to the world at 10.25 last night in the following words: ‘It is reported from the Führer’s headquarters that our Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, has fallen this afternoon in his command post in the Reich Chancellery
fighting to his last breath against Bolshevism.’
Stratton scanned the rest of the column. It didn’t say how Hitler had died, and Stratton wondered if he’d been killed by the Russians, or even by the Germans themselves. A shame, he thought, remembering the films he’d seen of the concentration camps, that he wasn’t given a taste of his own medicine. Still, he was dead, and the world was a better place without him. The trouble was, they’d all spent so long learning not to believe things and preparing for the worst, that it was hard to adjust one’s thinking or even take it in properly.

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