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Authors: Laura Wilson

BOOK: Stratton's War
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Christ Almighty, thought Stratton. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage. ‘I’ll see to it.’
Stratton was relieved to find his office empty; he needed a few minutes by himself. He supposed he ought to thank his lucky stars that DCI Lamb hadn’t been on the receiving end of the telephone call, or he’d never have heard the last of it. SDI Roper being ‘very clear’ meant that Machin had been given a rocket, which, given that Stratton didn’t even work for him, was bloody unfair. And really, Machin had been pretty decent about it, considering . . . All the same, life was quite difficult enough without the two of them going on as if he’d just farted in church.
Policewoman Gaines put her head round the door. ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Stratton took a sip of the grey liquid, and grimaced.
‘Sorry, sir. It’s the best we can do.’
‘It’s warm and wet, anyway.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got a message for you, from the hospital.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Middlesex, sir. It’s about Emmanuel Vaisey. Brought in dead last night, Sir. Heart attack. Wife identified him. They think he’d been living on the streets.’
‘He was the one with mental trouble, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir. I suppose that must account for it.’
‘I should think so. Well, it’s one we don’t have to worry about.’
 
Arriving at the Express Dairy in Rathbone Place, which had been the workplace of the missing Peter Gannon, Stratton noted that the building was next door to the Wheatsheaf pub where Mabel Morgan had spent many, if not most, of her evenings. Stratton determined to enquire about her after he’d talked to Gannon’s employer Mr Smithson. At least, he thought, the barman wouldn’t be likely to telephone Scotland Yard with complaints about him.
Mr Smithson’s face darkened at the mention of Gannon. ‘Ran out on me, didn’t he? Did his rounds in the morning, and that was the last I saw of him. Letter five weeks later, giving notice - no forwarding address.’
‘Have you any idea where he’s gone?’
‘No. His wife might know, but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Poor woman.’
‘And you received this letter when?’
‘April sometime.’
‘Do you remember seeing a postmark?’
‘Can’t say I do. Something happened to him, has it?’
‘I hope not,’ said Stratton. ‘Unreliable, was he?’
‘No, his work was satisfactory - till he took off, that is.’
‘Why do you think he went?’
‘Don’t know. Might be a woman involved, I suppose, but I shouldn’t have thought he was much of a one for the ladies, not with that funny eye.’
‘Funny?’ Stratton looked at his notes again. ‘Oh, the cast.’
‘That’s right. Made him a bit odd looking.’
On the way out, Stratton caught sight of the machine for putting cream on pastries, which now stood unused, and wondered when he’d be able to have a rhum baba again. Not that they were ever as good as they looked, but all the same . . . The memory of tea-time treats made him think of Monica and Pete. He’d be seeing them in less than a week . . . He thanked Mr Smithson, and went next door to the Wheatsheaf.
The barman was busy polishing glasses in the Saloon Bar. ‘We’re closed, sir.’
‘DI Stratton, Great Marlborough Street.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir. What can I get you?’
‘Nothing, thanks. I’ve come for a spot of information about one of your regulars - or former regulars. Have you worked here long?’
‘Past two years, sir.’
‘Right. What’s your name?’
‘Prewitt, sir.’ The barman sounded wary. ‘Shall I call the governor? ’
‘That won’t be necessary. It’s about Miss Morgan.’
‘We heard about that. A real tragedy, that was.’
‘I understand she was often here.’
‘Oh, yes. Most evenings.’
‘What was she like? I mean, her behaviour.’
‘Well, she was friendly . . . I don’t really know what to say, just a nice woman.’
Stratton, noting that Prewitt had said woman, not lady, asked, ‘What did she sound like?’
‘Oh, you know . . . London.’
‘What sort of voice?’
‘Cockney, really. When she first told me she’d been in films I didn’t believe it, because she didn’t sound like they do, but then she told me it was before they brought out the talkies . . . She showed me a magazine with a photograph of her, before she had the accident - beautiful. You’d never have thought it, but it was all true. People used to buy her drinks, and she’d tell them about it and show the picture. You know the sort of thing, sir.’
Stratton, who did know the sort of thing, thought how sad it was to be reduced to cadging drinks in return for anecdotes.
‘Did she drink a lot?’
Prewitt thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘A fair bit, sir. We get a lot like that in here - writers and theatrical types. And like I said, a lot of people bought her drinks.’
‘Did she use any strange expressions? Old-fashioned slang, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that.’
‘Would you say she was an educated person?’
‘Well, she wasn’t stupid, but I wouldn’t say she’d had a lot of schooling, no.’ None of which, Stratton thought, as he headed off in the direction of the Gannons’ flat in Scala Street, made Mabel Morgan sound anything like the writers of the letters in the deed box. Surely nobody who spoke normally would write in such an affected way? But if she wasn’t either Binkie or Bunny, why keep the letters?
Stratton turned this over in his mind as he waited for someone to answer the door. Mrs Gannon was a small woman, with bitter eyes and a sort of flattened quality, which - together with the faded floral pattern on her apron - made him think of a badly pressed flower.
When Stratton explained who he was and why he was there, she invited him in. The Gannon home was two rooms at the top of a dark staircase, and the whole house, as far as he could see, had a dilapidated air, inside and out. The main room, which contained a gas range and some threadbare washing drying on a clothes-horse in a corner, looked out onto a grimy school building and a yard, now empty of children.
‘Gone off, hasn’t he?’ Mrs Gannon said. ‘A woman.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ asked Stratton.
‘Wrote me a letter, didn’t he? Wanted me to send his clothes, but I popped them, didn’t I? Needed the money. Said he’d send me something, but he never did.’
‘When did you receive the letter?’
Mrs Gannon shrugged. ‘Dunno. Spring, sometime. April, I think it was.’
‘Have you kept it?’
‘In there somewhere.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the second room.
‘Could I have a look at it, please?’
‘What d’you want to see it for?’
‘It’s just a routine enquiry, Mrs Gannon. Checking up on people who’ve gone missing.’
‘He’s not missing, is he? He’s with a woman.’
‘You didn’t tell them at the police station.’
‘Never thought, did I?’ she said, belligerently. ‘Got enough on my plate.’
‘May I see it?’
‘I suppose so.’ She disappeared into the other room and emerged a couple of minutes later, with a much-folded piece of paper, which she thrust at him. ‘Go on, then.’
He glanced through the letter: . . .
and that is all I can say dear and I hope you will forgive me for it. If you would send my clothes on because I have not anything at present can you send them to this address which is where we are stopping at present
. The address, written at the top, was in Belmore Lane, Holloway, N. Stratton noted it down and returned the letter to its owner. ‘I’ve not seen him since he went,’ said Mrs Gannon, adding, defiantly, ‘I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, and I don’t care, do I?’
 
Clattering down the stairs, Stratton decided that Mrs Gannon couldn’t have murdered her husband - not without help, anyway. She certainly didn’t look as if she could move a body or lift a paving stone on her own. Still, he’d need to speak to someone at the station in Holloway to check that Gannon was living at the address on the letter. He had a friend up there, Ralph Maynard, who’d been at Vine Street with him in the early days. A telephone call ought to do the trick. He could do that back at Marlborough Street.
 
When he got home that evening, Jenny handed him a message from Donald:
Will have projector by tomorrow. When’s the film show?
THIRTY
Diana dumped her suitcase onto the bed at Tite Street and collapsed, flat on her back, beside it. The train journey back from Hampshire had been hellish - slow and cramped in a stuffy carriage with the blackout blinds drawn - and she’d returned home to an overpowering smell of sewage from a ruptured waste-pipe in the next street. She was exhausted and she ached all over. What the hell was she going to do? The last four days, and a good part of the last three nights, had been spent thinking about it, but she could find no solution. She couldn’t ask Guy for a divorce - that was out of the question. She must have been mad even to consider it. Even if it were possible, and even if - in the best case - Guy was a gentleman and allowed her to divorce him, it would mean a lot of sordid business involving private detectives and hotel rooms, and social taint, if not actual disgrace. And supposing she had a baby? Unable to say anything about the confiscation of her contraceptives, which had to be Evie’s doing since Guy, she was sure, knew next to nothing about such things, she’d lain rigid, fingers crossed behind Guy’s back as he . . . he . . . You could hardly call it ‘making love’, it was more like . . . what? Gardening, that’s what it was like. Planting a seed. And she might as well have been a flowerbed for all the attention he’d paid her. He hadn’t even stayed afterwards, just gone sheepishly back to the bed in his dressing-room, leaving her to cry herself to sleep.
It had been his diffident, apologetic quality afterwards, coupled with her mounting anger at being treated like a mere thing, which had caused her to erupt in fury on the last night of their stay, fighting him off, hitting and scratching, and calling him the filthiest names she could think of. But instead of turning away from her in disgust, he’d been excited by it; more aroused, in fact, than she’d ever seen him.
‘Going to fight me, are you?’ he’d said, pushing her down on the bed. He’d held her there with one hand and unbuttoned his trousers with the other, and the look on his face was . . . Diana shut her eyes and tried to blot out the image. She didn’t want to remember.
‘Leave me alone, you bastard!’ She’d struggled to sit up, and even attempted to scratch his face, but it hadn’t made any difference. She wouldn’t have been much of a match for him anyway, but months of army training had made him strong and very fit.
‘That’s your game, is it?’
‘What are you talking about? It’s not a game - Guy, I don’t want—’ He’d put a hand over her mouth. True, he’d removed it quickly enough when she’d bitten him, but even that hadn’t made him stop. ‘You little bitch.’ His voice was thick, coarser, different. Ignoring her protests, he’d pinned her to the bed, yanked her silk nightdress up so viciously that it tore, rammed his knee between her legs hard enough to bruise, and pushed himself inside her.
‘Please, Guy, don’t.’
He’d grinned at her, then, but a sudden flicker of grim purpose across the stupid, lustful expression on his face had made her realise that he knew damn well she wasn’t playing a game and he didn’t care. The really odd thing about it - the thing she didn’t want think about - was that she could see that if she had wanted him to do it, it would have been quite enjoyable, certainly more than usual because . . .
Diana sat up and shook her head violently, trying to erase the memory. Despite what had happened, she couldn’t entirely blame Guy for being angry with her. After all, she could hardly explain to him about Claude, or about not wanting his child. Perhaps there was something wrong with her. Perhaps she wasn’t normal. After all, women - if married - were supposed to want children, weren’t they? That was the natural course of things. Or at least her duty, as Evie had said. After all, she didn’t have to fight, did she? She didn’t even have to remain in London and risk being bombed if she didn’t want to. Guy only wanted what any man might reasonably want from his wife . . .
She’d just have to wait - not long, a week, at most - to find out whether or not she was pregnant, but if the answer was yes . . . ? ‘Oh, God!’ She clenched her fists and dug her nails into her palms, as if by inflicting pain on herself she could drive away the possibility.
Supposing Guy were to be killed? Then, if she were pregnant, she’d be left with his child, and Evie. But if she weren’t . . . For a few minutes, Diana gave herself up to the fantasy of marrying Claude, conveniently forgetting both Guy’s existence and that of the woman Claude had abandoned, before returning to miserable reality.

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