Stratton's War (26 page)
Authors: Laura Wilson
Sir Neville Apse, Stratton thought. That was a name to conjure with . . . and if it were the name of the corpse, then he’d bet his bottom dollar that things were about to get very complicated indeed. They always did when people in high places were involved. But then again, Byrne had described the clothes as poor stuff, not smart tailoring. Still, he thought, at least DCI Lamb wasn’t around to stick his oar in - not yet, anyway.
The visit to McIntyre Brothers didn’t prove helpful beyond confirming that the men’s tools, including two spades, had been stored at the church overnight, and that builder’s lime had been used in the preparation of mortar. One of the labourers, Curran, second generation Irish with a spuddy face and sprouts of ginger hair, had seemed a bit shifty and uncomfortable, but there could be all sorts of reasons for that - selling off building materials on the side, or a previous run-in with the police . . . Anything, really. Bugger anything, in fact. He must remember to tell that one to Donald, and find out if there’d been any progress on the film projector at the same time. Quickening his pace, and hoping that the buses had got back to normal - or were at least travelling in something approaching the right direction - he headed for home.
TWENTY-SIX
Stratton sat on the sofa in Sir Neville Apse’s flat-cum-office at Frobisher House in Dolphin Square, waiting until such time as the owner of the place would deign to see him. After a brisk telephone conversation, Sir Neville, who was clearly very much alive, had agreed to spare him ten minutes, but it hadn’t been easy. Their short conversation had left Stratton with the impression that Sir Neville was the kind of aristocratic Englishman who believed that he had a particular knack for endearing himself to the lower orders - in this case, Stratton - by patronising them in a hearty voice. Stratton twiddled his thumbs and hoped that the meeting wasn’t going to be as tiresome and unhelpful as the circumstances seemed to indicate. He’d gathered, without actually being told, that Sir Neville was something to do with the War Office, and the signs (the FANY driver he’d seen outside, and the glacial beauty with the clipped, upper-class tones who had let him in) were of someone pretty important. Perhaps, Stratton thought, he was one of those well-connected types who’d been recruited in White’s, or some other gentlemen’s club, for hush-hush work by a chap who was at school with him, but whatever it was, he was sure it would be far too important for the ears of a common copper.
Hearing the murmur of men’s voices in the corridor, he pricked up his ears. ‘Letter from the wine merchants . . . stock destroyed by enemy action so they can’t fulfil specific orders.’
‘Better hope it’s not the Barolo.’
‘Making them up from whatever’s available, apparently. Nuisance . . . Still, one shouldn’t complain.’
No, thought Stratton, one bloody well shouldn’t. As privations went, it wasn’t worth mentioning, but this was a different world. It wouldn’t have surprised him much to find that things didn’t even taste the same in places like this - apples like bananas, for instance, or water like wine. Barolo, perhaps, whatever that was like.
When Sir Neville appeared after twenty minutes, without even the offer of a cup of tea, Stratton stood up and held out his hand. Sir Neville ignored it and flapped a languid wrist at him. ‘Ver’ good, sit dine.’ Christ, thought Stratton, not even an apology for keeping him hanging about, despite the fact that he had turned up at precisely the time requested. Probably shows how terrifically common I am, he thought, as he subsided once more onto the sofa. Stop it, he told himself. The snarl of the underdog was just as bad as rolling over because of someone’s rank - both would influence his judgement. He considered Sir Neville’s handsome, patrician face, well-cut suit, and long-limbed frame, and found himself wondering if his wife ever called him Pinkle-Wonk in intimate moments.
Seeing Sir Neville’s frown, and realising that he must be grinning, Stratton hastily composed his features. ‘I am conducting a murder enquiry,’ he said, firmly, before Sir Neville had a chance to say any more about how busy, and, by extension, how much more important than Stratton, he was.
Sir Neville raised his eyebrows. ‘And how may I help?’
‘Do you know the Church of Our Lady and St. Peter in Eastcastle Street, WI?’
‘I am an Anglican.’
‘Have you ever visited that church?’
‘No. To the best of my recollection the only Roman service I have ever attended was a wedding, at The Church of the Immaculate Conception at Farm Street in Mayfair.’
‘Your laundry is done in Mayfair, isn’t it?’
‘I have no idea. I’m not responsible for the laundry. The housekeeper may know, or possibly my wife, Lady Violet.’
‘Nevertheless, we have a handkerchief bearing your laundry mark.’
Sir Neville’s eyebrows went up again. ‘Have you indeed?’
‘Yes, we do. It was found on a corpse discovered at Our Lady and St. Peter. The provenance of the mark was confirmed by Venner’s Steam Laundry. Do you have any idea how it might have got there?’
‘None at all. I suppose I must have dropped it, and this . . . individual . . . picked it up.’
‘Do you remember losing a handkerchief?’
Smiling, Sir Neville shook his head. ‘No, but it’s hardly of great importance, is it?’
‘It is now.’
‘Yes, I suppose it must be, but I’m afraid I can’t see how I can be of assistance, Inspector.’
‘I see.’ Stratton stared at Sir Neville’s bland expression and thought just how satisfying it would be to punch him. As he was standing up to leave, the door opened and a younger, almost offensively handsome man appeared, the glacial beauty in tow. ‘Hope you don’t mind, old chap,’ he said, ‘but I’m taking your Girl Friday out for a spot of lunch.’
‘Not at all,’ said Sir Neville, smoothly, ‘as long as she’s back by half-past two.’ Looking at the girl, he said, ‘Enjoy yourself, Diana.’
‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’ With that, the pair of them departed, not having cast so much as a glance in Stratton’s direction. The woman was beautiful all right, in a haughty way, and very slender, with lovely legs. Stratton guessed that the pair either were, or soon would be, lovers. Good luck to Handsome, he thought - the girl might be good-looking, but she was chilly enough to freeze your cock off.
Taking his leave soon afterwards, Stratton walked down the Embankment, reflecting that the man had shown no curiosity about the identity of the corpse - he hadn’t even asked whether it was a man or a woman. But then, Stratton thought, he hadn’t surmised either - most people would assume it must be male. He wondered if this was significant, or if it was more a case of Sir Neville being uninterested in things that did not concern him directly.
He returned to Great Marlborough Street and asked Policewoman Gaines to look through the remains of West End Central’s Missing Persons files and see if she could find anyone who matched the description of the body. Most of the rest of the day was spent embroiled in the details of the nightclub business - there were several glaring contradictions in the statements, but as most of the witnesses had, by their own admission, been roaring drunk, this wasn’t exactly surprising. By the time Stratton had checked on most of the points, it was looking horribly as if the chap who’d tried to rape the young hostess was the son of a bishop - more people in high places.
By half-past five, he’d had managed to track down the girl’s mother and had high hopes of effecting a reunion, which, he thought, would be something, at least. He was considering his next step when Gaines knocked on the door. ‘May I come in, sir?’
‘If you can. Why don’t you sit down here, in fact? I can perch on the corner of the desk.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m afraid quite a lot of the records were destroyed, but I do have two names for you.’
‘Excellent. Fire away.’
‘Gannon and Vaisey. Both in their late forties or early fifties, and reported missing in the last six months.’
‘Both before the raids started?’
‘Yes, sir, but that’s not conclusive, is it? I mean,’ she added, hastily, ‘they might have been killed since, mightn’t they, sir?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, sir, the first one, Peter Gannon, is forty-eight. Five foot ten, brown hair, blue eyes, cast in one eye. Dairyman, worked in Rathbone Place - wife reported him missing on the ninth of March, hadn’t seen him for a week . . . Last person to see him was his employer, Mr Smithson. That was on the fifth. He was wearing his uniform. There was some trouble at home, so that could be the reason he left.’
‘Have you checked with the hospitals?’
‘Yes, sir, for both of them. Nothing at all.’
‘Who’s the other?’
‘Emmanuel Vaisey. Forty-six years old. Reported by his wife on the eighth of March. He’s had mental problems since the last war, apparently, so that might have had something to do with it. Address in Lexington Street. Wife keeps a tobacconist there; Vaisey didn’t work.’
‘Right. Well done. I’ll need a copy of all that on my desk by tomorrow morning.’
Gaines beamed at him. ‘Right you are, sir.’
He struggled home on four different buses, crammed with people who’d been prevented from travelling by tube because floods caused by bomb damage had put a large section of the Northern line out of action. When he finally managed to secure a seat, five stops away from home, he closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift first to Policewoman Gaines and then, by way of contrast, to Sir Neville’s Girl Friday.
Diana, he’d called her. Diana . . . Stratton spent the rest of the journey wondering what she’d look like naked.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Diana let herself into Forbes-James’s flat. Margot Mentmore wasn’t at her post, so she crossed straight to the door of the office, knocked, and was pushing open the door when F-J’s voice called out sharply, ‘A moment, please!’ and she hastily closed it again. Odd, she thought, that he wasn’t behind his desk, where he usually sat when he interviewed people. Must be something less formal . . . Or perhaps Mrs Forbes-James was in there. Diana hoped she was - she was dying to see what F-J’s wife looked like. But surely he’d have invited her in and introduced them? But of course he hadn’t known it was her on the other side of the door. Her visit wasn’t scheduled - Guy’s leave meant that F-J wasn’t expecting to see her for at least a week. Guy’s leave. Diana sank into Margot’s chair and groaned. She’d been trying to avoid thinking about it ever since Evie’s letter arrived.
Diana could hear the murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out what was being said. She rose as the office door opened and F-J appeared, doing up his cuff, in the company of a distinguished, grey-haired man. ‘This is Dr Pyke . . . Mrs Calthrop.’ As they shook hands, he added, ‘Dr Pyke is a neighbour, Diana. He’s been kind enough to check my blood pressure.’
‘I didn’t realise you were unwell, Sir,’ said Diana. ‘I wouldn’t have bothered you, only . . .’
‘I’m fine,’ said F-J. ‘Merely a precaution.’
Dr Pyke nodded. ‘Can’t be too careful. Your boss is a busy man, Mrs Calthrop.’
When he’d gone, Diana said, ‘I’m very sorry I disturbed you.’
‘It doesn’t matter in the least,’ said F-J. ‘Please don’t apologise. Now . . .’ he ushered her into the office. ‘What have you got to tell me?’
Forbes-James frowned. ‘A policeman?’
‘Yes, sir. This morning. Detective Inspector Stratton.’ As she said this, Diana noticed that two of his shirt buttons, hitherto camouflaged by his tie, were undone.
‘And you’ve no idea what it was about?’
‘No, sir. But I thought you should know.’
‘I see. You heard nothing?’
‘No, sir.’ Diana averted her eyes from F-J’s. ‘I had to go out, sir.’
‘I happened to bump into Ventriss on my way out at lunchtime,’ said F-J. ‘He appeared to be heading in the direction of Frobisher House.’
‘Yes, sir. We had lunch together.’ Diana thought she’d managed to say this without any particular inflection at all, but F-J shook his head with a sorrowful expression that made her want to squirm. It hadn’t only been lunch - they’d gone back to Tite Street afterwards - and it seemed to her that F-J somehow knew or guessed this. ‘Apse seemed very preoccupied this afternoon, sir,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I had a lot of paperwork to finish, but he told me I could go - I had the impression he didn’t want me there.’
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