The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘Funny ideas?’

  ‘Yes, politics, and that sort of thing. To be honest, I haven’t a clue what it was all about, but it was something to do with economics and money, and he clearly didn’t approve of it. Maybe he thought it was going to poison Richard’s mind, but I don’t know. It’s the sort of thing Mr Pemberton would be able to explain – there’s nothing he doesn’t know about money. I may work in a bank, but that doesn’t mean I know about things like economics. Social credit, that’s what Joan said it was called. Charlie may have thought Richard would grow out of it, but it seems he didn’t, and that’s why they fell out.’

  ‘And what did Joan think of these ideas?’

  ‘I’m not sure she really understood them. A bit over her head, I reckon. I think she went along with what Richard wanted to do, at first anyway.’

  ‘It’s been suggested that Joan hid this uniform of Richard’s because she didn’t want Audrey to get her hands on it, but Audrey seems to think it’s hers and Joan stole it from her. Do you know why that would be?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I told you Audrey was a possessive mother, didn’t I? Maybe she thinks Joan stole Richard from her. That old uniform’s a part of Richard’s childhood, when he belonged to her, so if she gets it back, she gets him back, out of Joan’s hands. Like when soldiers capture the other side’s flag in a battle, you know? And Joan might’ve wanted to stop Audrey getting her hands on it for the same reason – at least at the beginning, when Richard went off to France with the TA. Towards the end, though, I think it might’ve been just to spite Audrey.’

  Carol’s eyes darted across Jago’s shoulder as the door opened behind him. He looked round to see Pemberton entering the room and rose from his chair.

  ‘Am I interrupting you?’ the manager asked. ‘It’s just that—’

  ‘We were just finishing, thank you,’ said Jago. ‘Miss Hurst has been most helpful. And thank you, Mr Pemberton, for sparing her to talk to us.’

  Carol got to her feet. Jago thought she looked a little flustered, as if worrying that she’d spoken to him for too long or said too much.

  ‘I’ll get back to work now, then,’ she said hesitantly. ‘If there’s anything else you need to know, just ask.’

  She made her way quickly to the door and slipped out past Pemberton without another word.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The bank manager stood by the door, regarding Jago with an inquisitive gaze as if to ask if he might similarly be dismissed and return to his duties, but Jago motioned to the chair that Carol Hurst had just vacated.

  ‘Mr Pemberton,’ he said, as the manager sat down, ‘Miss Hurst was just talking to us about something called social credit, which she felt unable to explain, but she said you would know all about it. Do you think you could shed some light on it for us? Just the bare bones.’

  ‘How touching,’ said Pemberton. ‘It’s flattering to discover the staff think I know everything, but I can’t claim that’s really true. If it will help you, though, I’ll happily try to explain as best I can. It’s all to do with economics, and it’s an idea put forward some years ago by a man called C. H. Douglas.’

  His voice had become animated, which suggested to Jago that the bank manager relished opportunities to explain economic subjects.

  ‘In layman’s terms, please, if you can, Mr Pemberton,’ said Jago, eager to forestall complicated musings. ‘Simple enough for a policeman to understand.’

  ‘Of course, yes,’ Pemberton replied, his voice now slowing and taking on a schoolmasterly emphasis. ‘You have to look at it in the context of the economic problems the world’s had since the last war. Take the great depression we had in the early thirties, for example. Many people say that was caused by overproduction – too many goods being manufactured for the market to absorb. Douglas said the real problem was that in our kind of economy the costs of production are greater than the purchasing power that people have from their incomes. I confess even I don’t understand the ins and outs of his economic argument, but to put it simply, I think he meant people just don’t have enough money to buy all the things we produce.’

  ‘And social credit is the answer?’

  ‘Yes. He said the solution to all the economic problems we’ve seen in recent years is to introduce what he called a national dividend – an amount of money given to each person by the state to augment their purchasing power. Enough for them to choose whether to work or not, in fact. He claimed this would bring about an age of leisure, with prices stable or even falling, and an end to inflation. It would increase the freedom of the individual and make everyone more prosperous, regardless of whether they had a job or not. You might ask, of course, whether this wouldn’t lead people to take advantage, and many would agree with you. The theory, though, assumed that all people are fundamentally good.’

  ‘Not an easy conclusion to come to these days.’

  ‘Indeed, but Douglas believed wars were inevitable as long as political leaders tried to achieve full employment, because the only way to do that was to increase exports by capturing foreign markets. I remember him giving a talk about it on the wireless five or six years ago – he said it’s economic war that leads to military war. But who knows whether he was right? Either way, he said there’s enough wealth in the country for everyone, but the problem is not everyone has access to it.’

  ‘So we give everyone this national dividend and they have the money they need to buy things?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘Is that the same as communism?’

  ‘I don’t think Douglas was a communist or even a socialist – he thought his ideas would give power to the individual, not to the state. I’m not really sure which category he fits into, I’m afraid, or whether he fits into any of them. I think he believed that in the future machines would do the work, and he may well be right. In banking we now have accounting machines instead of the old handwritten ledgers, and there’s even talk of having robots instead of staff. Douglas believed automation would mean fewer jobs, but with social credit people wouldn’t necessarily need a job to be economically secure and happy. Whether he thought we’d still need policemen I don’t know. What do you think?’

  Jago said nothing. As far as he was concerned, until such time as policemen were no longer required, his job was to ask questions, not to offer opinions on matters of public policy.

  ‘Actually,’ Pemberton continued, ‘I don’t think he was naive enough to think we’d ever have no need of police officers or armed forces. He argued that his social credit policy would remove the need for Britain to start wars, but that didn’t mean other countries would never attack us, so I don’t think he was calling for unilateral disarmament, for example, unlike some of our politicians in recent years. He said that that would be like saying a bank would never be robbed if it had paper walls – you’ll understand why I remember that particular allusion.’

  ‘So basically he was saying the government should give everyone a certain amount of money, regardless of whether they already have a job, and this money wouldn’t have to be repaid?’

  ‘I think that’s it. Good news for people without a job, and bad news for loan sharks, you might say.’

  ‘You might indeed. So that’s what the Social Credit Party believes – the ones they call the Greenshirts?’

  ‘Roughly, I think, but I’m not an expert, so I may be wrong. The main problem is that Douglas’s system is so complicated, hardly anyone can understand it.’

  ‘And what’s your view of it as a banker, as far as you understand it?’

  ‘My view is simple. I’d say it’s not the kind of notion any serious banker would entertain for a moment.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘That’s interesting,’ said Jago as they emerged from the bank onto the High Street. He strode off, heading in the direction of the town hall and West Ham Lane.

  ‘What – all that stuff about economics? I didn’t understand a word of it,’ Cradock replied, hurrying to keep
up and hoping they were returning to the police station, where at last he could say goodbye to the suitcase.

  ‘I’m not sure I grasped every detail myself,’ said Jago, ‘but it’s interesting because of what it tells us about the family. According to Audrey, Richard takes after his dad, but if we’re to believe what Carol’s just told us they’re actually like chalk and cheese. You’ve got Charlie Lewis making a fortune out of back-street loans to people who are short of cash or can’t make ends meet – probably charging interest rates that’d make your eyes water – and a son who believes the government should give everyone free money to spend. No wonder they didn’t quite see eye to eye. I would’ve liked to be a fly on the wall if ever those two had got down to discussing economic policy. And I think I’d like to know a bit more about Charlie’s business activities.’

  ‘Shall I check up on him, sir?’

  ‘Yes, find out whether he had proper premises to trade from, like those places in Stratford Broadway that advertise loans without security – you know, “five pounds to five hundred, with or without security”, that sort of thing. And check whether he ever got a certificate for his business from the Petty Sessions Court. If he only died a couple of years ago it should all still be on record. If he didn’t get one, see if you can find out whether he applied and was found not to be a fit and proper person, or whether he didn’t apply at all. And find out whether there’s any record of him taking out a moneylender’s excise licence.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And will that be it, then?’

  ‘Will that be what?’

  ‘You said we had one or two little calls to make. So was it just one – going to the bank? Are we going back to the station now? I’m starving.’

  ‘It was two, Peter. Now that the landlord’s told us the sailor selling stockings at the Green Man on Sunday was Ernie Sullivan and the name we found in the sailor’s cap at Joan’s flat is E. G. Sullivan, I don’t think we need to wait for the navy to tell us where we can find him. We’re going round to Windmill Lane to see if anyone’s in. After that we’ll go back to the station.’

  Within a few minutes they had arrived in Windmill Lane and found the only greengrocer’s shop in the street, just a few doors along from St Mark’s Mission Church. They knocked on the door to one side of the shop. It was opened by a solidly built man of about fifty, of medium height and balding. His shapeless brown trousers looked as if they’d been worn for most of their life by a man a size or two bigger, with gathered handfuls of spare waistband overflowing a wide leather belt. With these he wore scuffed working boots and a black waistcoat over a grubby white shirt without a collar.

  ‘Yeh? What do you want?’ he said, leaning forward with one hand braced against the door frame.

  ‘Mr Sullivan?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘We’re police officers, and we’d like a word with your son.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Ernie. I believe he’s a sailor.’

  ‘He is, more fool him. At least his brother’s got the wit not to volunteer for anything, especially the army or navy. He won’t go till they make him.’

  ‘Is Ernie in?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Jago was beginning to think Sullivan was asking more questions than he was, but he opted for calm patience.

  ‘I’d like to speak to him, because I think we’ve found his cap.’

  Sullivan’s laugh was loud and sneering. ‘Well, well, well – so we’re in the middle of a war, but the police have time to return lost property in person. Three cheers for the modern policeman!’

  ‘Your son is Mr E. G. Sullivan?’

  ‘That’s right. E for Ernest, G for George, after me. No one calls him Ernest, though – it’s always Ernie.’

  ‘I’d like to return his cap to him.’

  ‘Leave it here, then, and I’ll give it to him.’

  ‘No, I want to return it myself, because I have one or two questions to ask him.’

  ‘You’re not telling me he’s in trouble, are you? Leave the poor lad alone. You know what it’s like when a sailor gets a bit of leave – you can’t begrudge him a bit of fun.’

  ‘He’s not in trouble, but I think he may be able to help us. How long is he on leave for?’

  ‘Just a few days.’

  ‘And he’ll be staying here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I’ll ask you again. Is he in?’

  ‘If you must know, he went down the pub for a spot of lunch and a pint with a couple of his old mates. The Cart and Horses, at the end of the street. What’s the time now?’

  Jago checked his watch. ‘Ten past three.’

  ‘You won’t catch him now, then. They’ll have kicked him out at closing time, so if it’s gone three and he’s not back, he’s probably gone off with his mates somewhere. Don’t suppose he’ll be long, though.’

  ‘If he gets in within the next hour, can you ask him to pop down to West Ham police station? You know where that is, do you?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tell him to ask for Detective Inspector Jago, and tell him I’ve got his cap.’

  ‘All right. I’ll send him down to see you. Can’t guarantee what sort of state he’ll be in, though. The poor lad’s living it up while he can.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Despite his unhelpful manner, it seemed George Sullivan had passed on the message as requested. The two detectives had barely got back to the station when a young man in Royal Navy rating’s uniform arrived and asked to see Jago. On being brought to the CID office he looked around, taking in the scene with the same look of intrigued interest that he might have shown when going ashore in Alexandria or Singapore.

  ‘Take a seat, Mr Sullivan,’ said Jago as he closed the door behind the visitor.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the sailor. ‘I’m not used to being called mister any more. It’s A. B. Sullivan these days – Able Seaman Sullivan, that is.’

  ‘Of course. Have you been in the navy for long?’

  ‘I volunteered a couple of years ago. Usual reason back then, I suppose – thought I’d see the world.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Some of it, yes. This time last week I was in the middle of the Atlantic, on my way over from Canada. You’ve heard about the fifty American destroyers?’

  ‘The ships Mr Roosevelt gave us in exchange for some bases?’

  ‘That’s the ones. Fair exchange is no robbery – that’s what they say, isn’t it?’ He laughed, seeming to find this an amusing thought, but Jago’s and Cradock’s faces were both blank. ‘Sorry,’ he continued. ‘You won’t know what I’m talking about, will you? Pig in a poke’s more like it. I’m serving in one of them at the moment – HMS Stockbridge, although I probably shouldn’t tell you that, should I? A terrible old tub, she is – the sort of ship that’d roll on wet grass. The Americans sailed her up from Boston to Nova Scotia with her old name painted out, then we took her over in Halifax. I reckon they were glad to get rid of her. On the way out there to get her we thought it was going to be great – we’d been told the destroyers all had fridges and showers, not like ours, and they definitely weren’t obsolete, whatever we’d heard. But when we tried to bring her back across the Atlantic, well … but that’s another story, as they say. The main thing is we got here, and now she’s in the Royal Albert Dock for a bit of refitting, and that means I’ve got a few days’ leave. Couldn’t be better for me – just a bus ride home.’

  ‘Very good – I’m sure everyone’s glad you got here in one piece. Now tell me, Mr Sullivan, when you crossed the Atlantic, did you bring anything of value back with you?’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re not the Customs and Excise.’

  ‘No, but I’ve heard there was a sailor selling ladies’ stockings in the Green Man on Sunday and I think that sailor may have been you.’

  ‘So? What if I was? There’s nothing illegal about it – I came by those stockings fair and square. They’re not stolen, and anyway
, I gave most of them away for nothing – as presents, like. There were just one or two ladies who insisted on paying for them.’

  ‘What were these stockings made of?’

  ‘Made of? I don’t know. I’m a sailor, not a fashion designer.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You went to all the bother of bringing them back across the ocean so you could sell them – you must’ve known what made them worth the trouble.’

  ‘All right, then. If you must know, they’re made of nylon. It’s all the rage over there. I bought some from one of the Yanks. He said where he comes from the women are crazy about them. But what’s any of this got to do with my cap? My dad said you wanted me to come down here because you’d found it.’

  ‘Ah, yes, your cap.’ Jago opened a drawer in his desk, took out the cap, and passed it to Sullivan. ‘Is this yours?’

  Sullivan looked inside. ‘E. G. Sullivan. Yes, that’s me. I’m glad you’ve found it – I’d be in trouble if I had to go back to the ship without it.’

  ‘How did you come to lose it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. All I know is I definitely had it Sunday lunchtime at the pub, and I still had it when I went back there in the evening, I think, but I had a bit to drink, and when I got home that night I didn’t have it.’

  ‘Do you know whether you had it when you left the pub in the evening?’

  ‘I think so, but by then I wasn’t feeling too good. I must’ve ended up having a lie down and a little kip, because when I woke up I was in a shop doorway and I was cold.’

  ‘What time did you leave the pub?’

  ‘I think it was something like a quarter past, half past eight. I remember there was a bit of bombing going on somewhere, and I was quite impressed because most people stayed in the pub and carried on with their drinks. Not bad for civilians, I thought.’