The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘Was that after Richard had moved away?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. So I don’t know whether he was involved with them. From what I knew of him when we were younger, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jago thanked Wilson and opened the door of the manager’s office to show him out. Conway was just outside the door, with his back to it, and appeared to be adjusting a small display of leaflets on a table. He whirled round as the door clicked open.

  ‘Ah, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Jago. ‘And thank you for letting us use your office. You can have it back now.’

  Conway gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and stepped in through the doorway. Jago stood back to let him in.

  ‘And perhaps we could have a word with you too before we go,’ he added.

  ‘Why, of course,’ said Conway, settling into the seat behind his desk and motioning them to take a couple of chairs themselves. ‘How are your investigations going?’

  ‘It’s early days yet, Mr Conway, but we’re making satisfactory progress. I trust you’ve had no more trouble in the meantime.’

  ‘No, we haven’t, I’m glad to say. Things seem to have settled back to normal, as much as anything is normal these days – and of course we’re all still very shocked about poor Joan. Did you get anything useful out of Wilson?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course, yes.’

  ‘But I would like to ask you something about Mr Wilson. How would you describe his character?’

  ‘Well, let’s see. He seems a good enough fellow to me. I can’t say I know him very well – he hasn’t been working for me all that long.’

  ‘Just your initial impressions would be helpful, though. Does he strike you as a reliable man, trustworthy?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to think he isn’t. In fact I took him on because I’d heard a good report of him, to do with what happened at the Broadway.’

  ‘And what was that good report?’

  ‘I was told he’d been on duty there the night it was hit. It was the same weekend the Stratford Empire caught a packet. I was sad to see that place go. I suppose it was lucky the theatre’d been closed for quite a few weeks, so nobody was killed, but it took a direct hit straight through the roof and was wrecked. Such a beautiful building.’

  ‘Indeed. And Mr Wilson?’

  ‘Yes, well, as you probably know, the Broadway Super was damaged when another bomb hit the cafe next door, early that same evening, and all those passengers in the buses going past were killed. Bert Wilson was on the front door at the Broadway, and it seems he was a bit of a hero. When I asked him about it he said it was nothing, he’d just got a few cuts, and his hat was blown off, but the manager at the Broadway told me Bert had gone straight over to the wreckage of the buses and helped pull the survivors out. With no thought to his own safety, he said. Cool as a cucumber. He reckoned Bert ought to be put up for one of those new George Medals. That’s really why I gave him a job, and he hasn’t done anything yet to suggest my judgement was wrong.’

  ‘A reliable and honest man, then, in your opinion?’

  ‘Yes. I wouldn’t have taken him on if I thought he wasn’t. But it’s difficult to say. I mean, I think he’s a brave man, but being brave doesn’t always make you honest, does it? I remember there was a fellow a few years back who lost part of his hand in the Great War and won the Military Medal, then got jailed for forging cheques. He’d been brave, but he still ended up behind bars, didn’t he?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Three-fingered Jack they called him. I remember that case. Military Medal and bar, in fact. So do you have reason to think Mr Wilson isn’t as honourable as he appears?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m just saying. You never know, do you?’

  Conway stood up and paced round the office, his face suggesting he was reflecting on what he had just said. He stopped by a bookcase and distractedly brushed the top of a camera that was sitting on the shelf, as if removing some invisible dust.

  ‘I told you I’m a photographer, didn’t I?’ he said, picking up the camera and passing it to Jago.

  ‘I think you said you’re a very good one,’ Jago replied.

  ‘Ah, yes, well I like to think I am. That’s my Rolleiflex – it’s a Standard, with a Heidoscop Anastigmat 75mm viewing lens. German, of course, but very good. I picked it up second-hand before the war.’

  ‘It sounds like you have a passion for photography.’

  ‘I do – I think it’s the greatest invention of the last century. It’s changed the world. I mean, who needs Rembrandt to spend months painting your portrait when a camera can capture a true likeness in one five-hundredth of a second? With photography, everyone can have beautiful pictures in their own home. If we all appreciated art and beauty more, I think the world would be a better place. It’s not musicians and artists who start wars, is it?’

  ‘Except Hitler, perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s the exception that proves the rule, and I expect he was a very poor painter.’

  Jago held the camera in front of his waist and looked down into the viewfinder.

  ‘But you don’t paint yourself?’ he said.

  ‘No, I just take pictures. I got the Rolleiflex because it’s what Cecil Beaton uses. I’m a great admirer of his work. I saw some of his fashion photos – beautiful women in beautiful clothes, just like in the movies, and they inspired me.’

  ‘So is that the kind of photography you aspire to?’

  ‘Yes. I realise I might’ve sounded a bit vague when I said that envelope of mine in the safe had some personal papers in it, but in fact they were photographs. The thing is, I was going to enter a national photographic competition, and I’d put some of my prints in the safe.’

  ‘Why? Are they valuable?’

  ‘They might be one day – it depends whether I manage to establish myself. I may not be Cecil Beaton, and I don’t think I’d want to be a fashion photographer for the rest of my life, but I do have a talent.’

  Jago was not surprised that Mr Conway thought he had a talent.

  ‘So these are fashion photographs?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, as far as that’s possible in West Ham. Beautiful clothes are a problem, of course – women round here don’t have the money for them, and neither do I – but there are still beautiful women to be found, and I try to capture the same sort of mood that Beaton had in those pictures of his that I saw. Languid sophistication – I think that’s what I’d call it.’

  ‘And the competition would help to establish you?’

  ‘If I win it, yes. Any amateur photographer would be thrilled to win a competition. It’s a recognition of your ability. I’d just like my work to be celebrated by other photographers with more experience than me.’ His voice took on a more urgent tone. ‘Look, Inspector, I think you understand me. I’d like to get those pictures back, so if you find whoever did this and you recover them, could you please return them to me? They were in a plain brown envelope, sealed with red sealing wax. I don’t want them to fall into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It would spoil my chances in the competition, of course – someone might recognise their quality and enter them as their own work.’

  ‘I understand. We’ll see what we can do, Mr Conway.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Back to the station now, guv’nor?’ said Cradock, putting the suitcase down as the cinema doors thudded shut behind them.

  ‘Patience, Peter,’ said Jago. ‘Just one or two little calls to make before we do. There’s one more person I want to show that uniform to.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Carol Hurst. We’ll leave it at the station when we get there, but I want to call in at the bank first. Thanks to Bert Wilson we now know what it is, but I’d still like to know whether it was definitely Richard’s. And w
hat did you make of our Bert? When you suggested he might’ve been in on the job his answer was quite convincing, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, sir. He’d got it all off pat, hadn’t he? As if he’d done all the sums before we came, and learnt it by heart.’

  ‘He certainly seemed to have something of a gift for arithmetic. And he thought a lot of Joan Lewis, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but then maybe he didn’t know her as well as he’d have liked to.’

  ‘Possibly. Or perhaps he knew more about her than he wished to admit. Mr Conway speaks highly of her too, though, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yes, and he’s a good judge of women, isn’t he?’ said Cradock with a stifled laugh. ‘It’s funny what you find out about people, isn’t it?’

  ‘You mean Sidney Conway as a would-be society photographer sensation?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘He’s entitled to his private life, though. And he does seem convinced that photography’s changed the world.’

  ‘Yes, and I get the impression he thinks he’s going to change the world too. A bit too big for his boots, if you ask me.’

  ‘Quite. Anyway, I’m not sure we can take what he said about Bert Wilson as a ringing endorsement of his doorman’s integrity, can we?’

  ‘No. I suppose the fact that a man rescues some people from a bus that’s been bombed doesn’t necessarily make him an angel, especially when temptation comes his way. If deep down he’s dishonest, it’ll come out in the end. You can’t judge a leopard by its spots, can you?’

  ‘You mean you can’t judge a book by its cover.’

  ‘Yes, same thing.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing at all,’ said Jago, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. ‘If you can’t judge a book by its cover it means appearances can be deceptive. A leopard’s appearance is never deceptive, precisely because it cannot change its spots.’

  Cradock looked at Jago as if his boss had temporarily lost the balance of his mind.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jago with a sigh. ‘I’m all right.’

  A month or so earlier the banks had shortened their Saturday opening hours, blaming the change on the war, but on weekdays they were still open until two o’clock in the afternoon. It was five minutes to two when Jago and Cradock entered the National Provincial and were shown to the manager.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, Mr Pemberton,’ said Jago. ‘I know your day is far from over when the doors close, but I need to see Miss Hurst again for a moment.’

  ‘But you spoke to her only yesterday,’ the manager replied. Neither his voice nor his expression reflected the lightness that Jago had noticed the previous day. ‘Are you sure she’s not in any trouble? This is a bank, Mr Jago, and we value our reputation for probity in all matters very highly.’

  ‘There’s no question of impropriety on Miss Hurst’s part. It’s just that she’s a witness in a case we’re investigating, and I need a little help from her.’

  ‘Very well. There’s a room upstairs that the staff use for their lunch break. It should be empty by now – you can talk to her there. But please don’t take too much of her time. There’s a lot of correspondence for her to type before she goes home, and the sun will be down before six. I don’t like to have to keep the girls here after dark, not since the air raids started.’

  The manager sent for Carol Hurst, and she took Jago and Cradock to the staff room upstairs. It was deserted. Closing the door behind them, she invited them to take a seat at a small round table while she made a pot of tea for them. Cradock put the suitcase down on the floor next to his chair and silently hoped for biscuits.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said, handing a cup of tea to each of them when it was brewed. ‘Here’s sugar too if you need it. I’m sorry I haven’t got anything to offer you to eat.’

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ Jago replied. ‘A cup of tea is more than sufficient.’

  Cradock smiled at the young woman sympathetically, hoping she might still remember a forgotten staff biscuit barrel, but she didn’t seem to receive the message he thought he was sending.

  ‘Now, Miss Hurst,’ said Jago. ‘I won’t keep you long. I’d just like to ask you a little about Joan Lewis and Richard, her husband. My question might seem a little intrusive, so please forgive me, but it’s been suggested to me that their marriage wasn’t necessarily in what you might call a healthy state. Is that correct?’

  ‘Who said that?’ said Carol.

  Jago did not reply.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she continued. ‘You’re not going to tell me. That’s your prerogative, I suppose. But if you want to know what I think, well, I hesitate to say, Inspector.’

  ‘You can be frank with me.’

  ‘All right, if you say so. I think Joan hoped for all the good things in marriage, but what you hope for in life and what you get can be very different, can’t they? I suspect maybe she saw what she wanted to see in Richard and grabbed her chance in case it slipped away, but then she found out they weren’t the perfect match after all. He wasn’t quite the man she’d hoped for, and she couldn’t be the woman he needed.’

  ‘Do you have any evidence for that?’

  ‘No, of course not. I mean, what can you tell about someone’s marriage from the outside? You never really know what goes on behind closed doors, do you? I was very fond of Joan, and I know she chose to marry Richard – no one forced her into it. I think she married him because she loved him, but maybe it went just a little bit sour later on.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘What can I say? It wasn’t easy for her, you know. When they got married they had to go and live with Audrey, his mother. Well, everyone knows that’s going to put the kybosh on it – I mean, a new wife living under her mother-in-law’s roof? Two women in the same house like that, it’s never going to work. I think it was just one of those cases where they didn’t hit it off. Joan was a lovely girl, but I got the impression she felt she’d never quite matched up to the standards Audrey expected for her son. You’ve probably heard that sort of thing a thousand times.’

  ‘I’ve been told Joan was lonely, that she didn’t have many close friends.’

  ‘She had me – we were close. She was like a sister to me – more than a sister, in fact. Ever since we first got to know each other doing all that prancing about exercise, like I said before.’

  ‘Did you remain close?’

  ‘You mean after she got married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that always changes things a bit, doesn’t it? I mean, she had a husband to look after. We were still more than just friends, though, I’m sure of that, even if we didn’t see as much of each other as we used to. I think I was the only person she could really confide in. That’s how I knew it wasn’t all roses with her mother-in-law. Mind you, I don’t say it was all Audrey’s fault. She’s had a basinful of trouble of her own to cope with. Her husband died, you know.’

  ‘Yes, she told me. She said he was an investor.’

  Carol gave a sudden laugh that almost caused her to spurt tea over her lap. She choked and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief.

  ‘Oh, do forgive me, Inspector, I shouldn’t be laughing at a time like this. It’s just that the way I heard it from Joan it wasn’t quite like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s a kind of investment, I suppose, but judging by what Joan said he was more like a moneylender. You know, special loans for people who can’t borrow money from the bank, and special interest rates to go with them. I believe they call it lending money on note of hand.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was where the trouble started for Audrey, from what I can tell. You see, according to Joan, he made pots of money but he didn’t like the thought of the taxman getting his greedy hands on it. He must’ve had some very clever ways of keeping it quiet, because when he died Audrey had no idea where he’d salted it away or how to fin
d it. They lived in a big fancy house in Windsor Road – you know, those nice detached ones – but she had to sell it and move to the one in Carnarvon Road where she lives now. That’s not exactly a hovel either – I certainly wouldn’t turn my nose up at it – but it’s not a patch on what she used to have. I feel sorry for her, really.’

  ‘I see. Now, there’s just one more thing I’d like to ask you about.’

  Jago picked up the suitcase and opened it on the table, then took out the tunic.

  ‘I wonder whether you can tell me what this is, Miss Hurst. Have you seen it before?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it, please?’

  ‘Yes. I went round to see Joan one day because I was going to a dance and didn’t have anything to wear. I thought she might have a dress I could borrow. We were that alike in build we could pass for each other in the dark. She said to have a look in the wardrobe and help myself. So I had a look, and I noticed this hanging up right at one end. I didn’t know what it was, so I pulled it out and said, “What’s this?” She said it was Richard’s. It was a kind of uniform for some group he belonged to. It had a funny name I’d never heard of. I can’t remember what it was now. Something like the Kitty Kat Club, but more like made-up words, nonsense.’

  ‘Was it Kibbo Kift?’

  ‘That sounds like it. Meant nothing to me, but she said it was something Richard had been involved in when he was younger, a bit like the Boy Scouts. He liked it, but there was a spot of trouble when Charlie found out more about it.’

  ‘Charlie?’

  Carol laughed again. ‘Ah, yes, I believe Audrey likes to call him Charles, but Joan said when he was doing his “investor” work he was just plain Charlie Lewis. Anyway, to start with, Charlie and Audrey thought it was just the same as the Boy Scouts, like I said – you know, camping, making fires in the woods and cooking on them, with a bit of tying knots and whittling thrown in – but when Charlie looked into it more he discovered it had some funny ideas he didn’t agree with.’