The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘Have you ever seen a pleasant one?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Jago felt his patience was being tried already.

  ‘I remember what it was like in the Great War,’ said Soper. ‘I don’t know what four years of fighting did for the national economy, but as far as prostitution was concerned it was boom-time. Morals went to pot. Time was when a copper knew who all the ladies of easy virtue were and could keep an eye on things, but it seems in wartime even respectable women get involved in the trade. And as for unfaithfulness – where do I start? Some men are barely arrived at the front before their wives’ eyes start wandering, and we know what that leads to. I say we should never have given them the vote. Look at the clothes they started wearing once they’d got it, and the things they started doing. And it’ll be worse in this war, you mark my words.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So what are you doing next?’

  ‘We’ve been tracking down family, friends and work colleagues and talking to them, and we’ve found a hat at the dead woman’s flat that looks like it shouldn’t have been there – a sailor’s cap. I’m going to try to find the owner when we’ve finished here.’

  ‘Good. And that safe-blowing business at the cinema?’

  ‘You’ve heard about it, then, sir? It comes at a bad time, what with the murder to investigate.’

  ‘That’s too bad. We’ve no one to spare, so you’ll have to take care of that too. If word gets around that picture houses are easy prey there’ll be more of the same, and we need to keep the cinemas going – they’re vital for morale, apparently, although I can’t see why, given the frightful tosh they put on most of the time. If you ask me, we need more good old-fashioned patriotic films – the cinemas still have far too many feeble-minded comedies, and they’re always showing that ridiculous romantic nonsense that comes from Hollywood.’

  ‘Really, sir? I very rarely go.’

  Soper stared at him. He sometimes wondered whether Jago treated these meetings as seriously as he should.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Right,’ said Amy Evans. ‘There’s some sausage toad keeping warm in the oven for your supper, and I’ll make you a cup of tea before I go.’

  ‘I wish you didn’t have to,’ said her husband, sneezing into a large handkerchief that had been more grey than white for some years. Hosea Evans was hunched in an easy chair only inches from the oven, trying to keep himself warm as what felt like a developing cold tormented his nose.

  ‘You won’t make it any better by sitting right next to that wet coat,’ she replied, busying herself with the teapot.

  ‘But I can’t go back on duty in that. I’ll catch my death.’

  The Home Office in its wisdom had decreed that AFS men would be issued with only one set of uniform, so every time he got home from duty he had to hang up his tunic and trousers in front of the range, in the hope that the heat from its fire would dry them before his next shift. It didn’t always work.

  ‘Surely you don’t have to go every night,’ he said. ‘You can’t just abandon me to fend for myself when I’m working all hours like this.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hosea, but I’m not spending the night here until all this bombing’s finished, and that’s final.’

  Amy Evans was a short, stout woman of forty-three, who, unlike her Welsh husband, was a native of Plaistow. Born in Brighton Road, she had lived there until she married Hosea, and then had moved into the next street, Stephen’s Road, and lived there ever since.

  ‘Look at the clock,’ she said. ‘I can’t wait around any longer.’

  She already had one arm in the sleeve of an old black overcoat and was struggling to get the other in while propping up a grubby canvas bag with her foot to stop it toppling over. Once she had the coat on, she poured a cup of tea as quickly as the pot allowed and handed it to him.

  ‘I’ll be back in the morning, same as always,’ she continued, ‘but my nerves just won’t stand it. I don’t think this old place would stand up to a decent clap of thunder, never mind high explosives. You know what I was like when the air raids started. It wouldn’t be so bad if you were here with me, but six nights a week you’re out fighting fires and suchlike. Now don’t get me wrong, I think you’re very brave for doing that, but there’s no use pretending. I’m not made of the same stuff as you, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. It’s men that start wars and men that fight wars. That Hitler must be a coward to bomb women and children, but he’s doing it, and that’s a fact. It’s not going to change anything by me staying here and getting killed too. I’m just thankful Cissie’s said I can spend the nights out there. At least I might get some sleep, and that means I can come back here in the morning and look after you properly. I only wish we could move out there ourselves.’

  ‘Oh, yes, let’s move out to the country. And what would we live on? I don’t like this war any more than you do, and I can think of plenty of things I’d like to do all night more than trying to put out fires when half the German air force is up there dropping bombs on our heads. But at least it means I’ve got a job. When have I ever earned three pounds a week in the last ten years?’

  ‘Yes, and when have I ever seen three quid coming into the house? I know a good wife isn’t supposed to begrudge her husband a drink, but a pint here and a pint there and it soon dribbles away, doesn’t it? I’m sure you’re a valued customer down at the King George, aren’t you? Not to mention the dog track. But I’d appreciate seeing a bit more of it in my purse, paying our bills.’

  ‘We’d have a bit more to spare if you weren’t spending it on train fares to Epping every night too, wouldn’t we?’

  ‘That’s not fair. It’s an emergency. I don’t think we can say the same about your pint down at the King George, can we?’

  ‘All right, love, you win. Look, we don’t want to start arguing, do we? I mean, when I’m out at night fighting fires I feel like I’m just one step away from an early grave. You’ve only got to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and you’ve had it, like those couple of lads when that wall fell on them last week. You go and see your sister, and have a good sleep, and God bless you, Amy. You’re more than I deserve, and I know it.’

  Her expression softened, and she crossed the room to give him a hug.

  ‘And I love you too, Hosea. Just you look after yourself tonight.’

  Before he could reply there was a knock at the front door. Amy opened it, to find Jago and Cradock standing on the pavement outside.

  ‘Is Mr Evans at home?’ said Jago, showing her his identity card. ‘I think he’ll be expecting us.’

  She looked them both up and down, then beckoned them in.

  ‘I’m on my way out, as you can probably see. I’ve got a train to catch, but if it’s my husband you want to talk to you won’t need me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be off.’

  She swung her bag over one shoulder, turned back to give Evans a brief kiss on the head, and went.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said Evans. ‘Do come in and take a seat. She’s not walking out on me, by the way, if that’s what you think.’ He smiled. ‘We’ve been happily married for nigh on twenty-five years. Got our silver wedding anniversary coming up next spring, although as you can see we’re not the sort of people to have a lot of silver about the house. No. Thing is, she’s a trekker.’

  Jago was familiar with the term: he’d heard people using it since the first heavy air raid in September. But this was the first time he’d met one.

  ‘She doesn’t go and sleep out in the forest, like some of them,’ Evans continued. ‘I don’t know what they’re going to do when the winter comes, if this bombing hasn’t let up by then. It’s pathetic, really, isn’t it? I mean, people having to cart their bedding and everything out to Epping Forest every night just to get away from the bombs? Fortunately for Amy, she’s got a sister in Epping – Cissie, her name is. Got a nice little bungalow, and she doesn’t mind Amy going out there. It’s been weeks now, though. Every night. And there’s no
sign of the air raids easing off, is there? If they did, I might get a chance of a bit of sleep myself, but as it is I seem to be on duty morning, noon and night. I don’t mind, though. I’m happy to take my chance with everyone else, and I can do my bit with the AFS. Plenty of work for us now, isn’t there?’

  ‘How long have you been a fireman, Mr Evans?’ asked Jago.

  ‘Since March of last year, when the council started recruiting people to join the AFS. I think we must’ve been one of the last places to start – the council here wasn’t very keen to get ready for a war, it seems. Only part-time at first, of course, but then a couple of days before war was declared we were mobilised, and from then on I’ve been full-time.’

  ‘And what did you do before that?’

  ‘Not a lot. It’s funny, really – the last proper job I had was stoking a furnace at Beckton gasworks, slaving away eight hours a day to keep the fires going, and now I’m seeing more fires than I ever wanted to see again and doing my hardest to put them out. Apart from that it was just bits and pieces, here and there. The last time I had good regular work was during the Great War. I got a job in a munitions factory. That was in 1915, when the government got caught short because the artillery at the front were running out of ammunition, and they built new factories everywhere. You remember that?’

  ‘I remember hearing about it.’

  ‘That packed up when the war ended, of course. There was no work, and I didn’t have any real skills, so I had to leave Wales. Most of us did, you know. I had no desire to live in England – the English have never done anything for Wales except send us underground so they can make money. It’s the same with Ireland, isn’t it? Just exploited people, although at least the Irish have got rid of the English, or most of them anyway. I can’t see the Welsh ever fighting the English, though, except on the rugby field. If you ask me, there’s only one thing about living in England that’s better than Wales, and that’s that the pubs don’t shut on Sundays here. Mind you, we’ve found plenty of ways round that in Wales, but I probably shouldn’t be saying that to a policeman, should I?’

  ‘We’re not here to enquire into your drinking habits, Mr Evans. I’d like to know if you can tell us anything more about what happened last night.’

  ‘Last night? Well, it was a big fire, I can tell you that for nothing. It had got a good hold on those old buildings before we got there. Incendiaries mainly, I expect. It’s not so bad if there are fire-watchers on duty, but some of those places in Carpenters Road still don’t have any. And even when they do, some of them skive, you know. It’s too easy for them to slope off for a rest or a sleep, or anything else that might take their fancy, for that matter – you’d be shocked at what some of them get up to.’

  ‘Perhaps we would, Mr Evans. Now, there’s just a few questions I’d like to ask you about last night. First of all, just to confirm – you said it was you and Mrs Parks, the ARP warden, who found the body, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And I understand she’d asked you to help her get into the building.’

  ‘Yes, although I wouldn’t say asked – told, more like it. She was a bossy sort of woman – ordered me about like a flunkey. I think I heard her say “please” once, if that. I’ve seen her type before, mind – English, you know.’

  ‘You went in through the back door?’

  ‘Yes, she told me to break it open. It was a pretty flimsy affair, though. She probably could have kicked it open herself.’

  ‘So why did she need you to do it?’

  ‘Something to do with regulations. It used to be that firemen were allowed to break into a place but wardens weren’t, but the government changed the regulations last week, so she could’ve done. She said she didn’t know, but I can’t see how she wouldn’t. I reckon she just wanted to get someone else to do the dirty work for her.’

  ‘Dirty work?’

  ‘Well, you know, if someone complained about having their door broken down, or if something else happened, she could say she wasn’t the one who did it, like.’

  ‘I see. As you were leaving us this morning, I had the impression that perhaps there was something else you were going to say. Was there?’

  Evans looked as though he were trying to recall the moment, and his face took on an expression of puzzlement.

  ‘Something else? No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I wondered whether perhaps you’d seen something. Did you notice anything suspicious or unusual last night?’

  Evans shook his head.

  ‘Did you know the dead woman?’ Jago continued.

  ‘No. Never seen her before. She was a good-looking girl, though. Not your usual run-of-the-mill spinster wasting away in a lonely little flat.’

  ‘What makes you say she was a spinster?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just assume she was, I suppose. She wasn’t wearing any rings.’

  ‘You noticed that, then.’

  ‘Yes, but that wasn’t suspicious or unusual, was it? There are women living alone in every street.’

  ‘So you didn’t see anything else that might shed some light on what happened in that flat?’

  ‘No, I was too busy fighting those fires to notice anything else.’

  ‘You know that area, though?’

  ‘No better than any other.’

  ‘Where are you stationed?’

  ‘I’m at West Ham No. 4 station, in Abbey Road – just down the road from here.’

  ‘Not far from Carpenters Road, then.’

  ‘Yes, but we go wherever we’re needed – some of these fires we’ve had recently have needed thirty pumps, and more, so they have to come from all over. Did you know? Before the war there were three fire stations in West Ham. Now there’s twenty-three, and we’re still fully stretched nearly every night. So I’m not in Carpenters Road often enough to know whether anything’s out of the ordinary. Besides, when you’re trying to control a fire hose with a hundred and fifty gallons of water a minute pumping through it you don’t have much time to study your surroundings. No, I’d say apart from finding a dead body in a bedroom, the only thing I saw last night that was a bit odd was that ARP warden, Mrs Parks.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By half past five on Monday evening Jago had been at work for nearly fourteen hours by his own reckoning, so he felt no guilt about keeping his appointment. He had arranged to meet Dorothy outside St Thomas’s Hospital and he was anxious not to keep her waiting. When they’d first met, she was just an American journalist he’d been instructed to chaperone round some of the bombed areas of West Ham, but of late – well, he’d noticed himself becoming increasingly concerned not to displease her in anything. It had come as something of a surprise to him to discover what an effect a woman could have on a man in a few short weeks, especially when that man was a police officer with twenty years’ service.

  One of his pleasures in life was to see the Thames from Westminster Bridge, so instead of driving to the hospital he parked his car in Great Smith Street, behind Westminster Abbey, and walked back to the bridge. The late-afternoon light had begun to fade, but when he reached the river he could still clearly see on the other side of the water the hospital’s turreted Victorian blocks ranged elegantly along the foreshore. He could also see the effects of the recent weeks’ air raids. The block closest to the bridge was wrecked, as were two others farther south along the row.

  Dorothy had said she’d be visiting the hospital this afternoon to interview staff about how they were coping with the bombs. She planned to write a feature for her newspaper in Boston, the angle of which, she’d explained to him on the phone, was to bring to life for the American reader the indiscriminate destruction of twentieth-century total war. Since the start of the Blitz in early September, more bombs had fallen on St Thomas’s than on the Houses of Parliament facing it across the river, and there was no way of knowing whether this was by design or just bad luck.

  The wind off the river was cold, and by the time he was nea
ring the far side of the bridge it was beginning to bite through his overcoat. His watch reassured him that he was on time, and he was pleased to spot her making her way towards him. Even from a distance there was something about her that stirred an unforced sense of admiration in him.

  It wasn’t long since he’d summoned up the courage to admit to Dorothy that he wanted to see more of her, but circumstances, his work and the war seemed to have conspired to keep them apart. Even worse – and he shuddered now with embarrassment at his own audacity – he’d confessed that his feelings for her were more than friendship. It wasn’t in his nature to throw caution to the winds like that, and as soon as the words left his mouth he’d felt a stab of anxiety that he’d gone too far, that he’d probably frightened her off. It was comforting, then, to see her looking so relaxed, greeting him with a warm smile.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, then stopped, uncertain what to say next.

  ‘Hello, John,’ she replied. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘It’s, er, good to see you too.’ He hesitated again. ‘Look, I’ve got the car parked across the river and I thought we could walk back over the bridge, but it’s getting chilly, so shall we hop on a tram instead?’

  ‘Sure.’

  They crossed the road to where the trams ran back and forth on the northern side of the bridge and waited at the stop until a red number 72 slowed to a halt. They climbed the stairs to the upper deck as it moved off, and sat down. The seat was small, and as they squashed in together Jago held on to the seat in front, careful to ensure the swaying of the tram didn’t bring them closer than Dorothy might think appropriate.

  ‘How was your visit to the hospital?’ he asked.

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Dorothy. ‘Inspiring, too. They’ve had a bad time there. You could probably see for yourself it’s taken quite a beating. The first block, the one in ruins next to the bridge, that was where the nurses lived. A doctor told me it was hit in one of the first raids, at half past two in the morning, and three floors collapsed – one poor nurse was trapped in the wreckage for hours before she died. He said he was amazed that only five of the women in there were killed.’