The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘And when you woke up from your little sleep, did you still have your cap then?’

  The sailor screwed up his face in concentration. ‘Sorry, can’t remember. I was a bit too far gone to care, I suppose.’

  ‘What time did you wake up?’

  ‘No idea. I can remember feeling cold and a bit stiff from lying there, but that’s about it. One of your coppers stopped for a word, and I suppose I should’ve asked him the time – that’s what they’re for, isn’t it?’ He chuckled to himself. ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘All right. Do you know what time you got home?’

  ‘Not sure – I vaguely recall putting the wireless on when I got home, the BBC programme for the forces. I thought there might be a bit of dance music on, but all I got was that religious thing, The Epilogue, so I turned it off. I think I went straight to bed then and fell asleep.’

  Jago was not a devoted listener to The Epilogue, but he knew it was broadcast on the BBC’s Forces Programme at ten o’clock on Sunday evenings, and he’d caught the end of it himself on the day in question.

  ‘The Epilogue was on from ten o’clock to ten past ten,’ he said. ‘So you’re saying you got home sometime between those two.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Can anyone vouch for the time you got home?’

  Sullivan seemed to be trying to focus his thoughts before replying. ‘Er, yes, my dad was in, I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I mean yes, he was in. But this cap of mine, where did you find it?’

  ‘It was found at the scene of a crime.’

  Sullivan’s expression suddenly changed, his eyes widening in alarm.

  ‘Crime? Now hold on a minute, what’s this all about? All I’ve done is have a few drinks and lose my cap. I came down here in good faith to claim it, and now you’re trying to mix me up in some crime.’

  ‘Do you know a woman called Joan Lewis?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you weren’t in her flat on Sunday evening?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What flat? Where?’

  ‘In Carpenters Road, Mr Sullivan. That’s where we found your cap, and I want the truth, please.’

  ‘Carpenters Road?’

  ‘Are you denying that you were there? If you weren’t there, what was your cap doing there?’

  ‘Yes, I mean no. I mean – hold on, I don’t understand. I …’

  Jago fixed him with a cold, silent gaze. Sullivan looked round the office, as though hoping that help would appear. None did, and finally he spoke.

  ‘All right, yes – yes, I was,’ he said. ‘I was in Carpenters Road, but I – no. No, that must be it – she must call herself something different now.’

  ‘You’re referring to Mrs Lewis?’

  ‘Yes, exactly, that’s it. I don’t know any Joan Lewis, but if that’s Joan Hayes’s married name then yes, I do. She said she’d got married but didn’t mention her new name, and I didn’t think to ask.’

  ‘She said this to you on Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, but what’s the problem? I bumped into her on the street near the Green Man in the afternoon. She’s an old friend from when we were kids at school. I gave her a pair of those stockings, actually.’

  ‘Did you go to her flat on Sunday evening?’

  ‘Yes. I asked her if I could pop in some time, just for old times’ sake, and she said yes. I said what about later that day, and she said she had to go to work – at the cinema. I asked her what time she knocked off, and she said she’d probably be home by half past nine. So I said I’d drop in then.’

  ‘And she consented to this?’

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t she? We were old friends, like I said. It wasn’t as though I was going to try anything on. She’d know that. She scribbled her address down and gave it to me.’

  ‘What time did you visit her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose it must’ve been about half past nine, but I didn’t check the time when I got there.’

  ‘You weren’t there for long, then, if you were home in time for The Epilogue.’

  ‘I suppose not. I certainly wasn’t there for as long as I’d thought I might be. She said she wasn’t feeling too well, but she still invited me in for a quick hello. We had a drink and a bit of a chat, but then I left. I could see she was going down with something – a touch of the flu, probably, I thought.’

  ‘And you went straight home?’

  ‘Yes. But look, what’s going on? All I’ve done is have a drink with an old friend. So why are you giving me the third degree like this? What’s the problem?’

  ‘The problem, Mr Sullivan, is that Joan Lewis has been murdered.’

  Sullivan seemed taken aback. He fumbled for his words. ‘Murdered? But why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘That’s what I intend to find out, Mr Sullivan.’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t me, right?’ said Sullivan, his voice rising. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do today. I’m off.’

  He strode out of the office, banging the door behind him, and Jago was left wondering whether the ferocity in the sailor’s voice denoted anger, grief or something else.

  Cradock went after Sullivan to ensure he had left the premises, then returned to the office and sat down.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘our Ernie was at Joan’s flat after all, but not for long.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jago. ‘It must be about ten, fifteen minutes’ walk from her flat to his end of Windmill Lane, less if he was in a fit state to run, so if he was home in time to hear a bit of The Epilogue he must’ve left the flat by about a quarter to ten, or five to ten at the latest. If he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘Do you think he was?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘All that falling asleep in the street and not knowing what time it was. And everything else he said too, for that matter.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’m just thinking we’ve found a sailor’s cap in Joan’s flat, and we’ve found a sailor with no cap, but he can’t remember when he lost it – or where or how, for that matter. Very convenient, that.’

  ‘Yes, but if he’d had too much to drink and genuinely can’t remember when he lost it, all we know is that he was seen with it in Martin Street at some time after half past eight. Which reminds me, he said one of our men stopped for a word. Check with the duty roster to see who was on that beat on Sunday late turn and ask him if it was Ernie he spoke to.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘In any case, if he did kill her, it wouldn’t be very smart to leave his cap there in her flat with his name stamped inside, would it? He might as well have left a calling card.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but if he was drunk he probably wouldn’t have thought of that, would he?’

  ‘No. But nevertheless, the fact that we found his cap in Joan’s flat doesn’t necessarily mean he murdered her.’

  ‘Right. So supposing he really did lose it – before he got to her flat, I mean. Someone else could’ve come across it, lying in the road or whatever. Do you think someone could’ve found it or stolen it and put it in the flat to incriminate him?’

  ‘It seems unlikely, but it’s a possibility. He was just lying in the street, dead to the world, after all. But if someone did take it, I doubt very much that young Ernie’ll be able to say who it was, unless he’s not telling us everything he knows.’

  ‘So what next?’

  ‘Next,’ said Jago, ‘I want you to phone up Addingtons in Carpenters Road, that place where Derek Marwell works, and find out what shift he’s on today. If he was with his wife when they saw Ernie in that doorway on Sunday, I’d like to know whether he can tell us anything else about it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The reply from Addingtons was that Derek Marwell’s shift wouldn’t end for another two hours, at six o’clock, so Jago decided now would be a good time to visit him. He made his way to the police station entrance, followed by Cradock,
and stopped for a word with Frank Tompkins.

  ‘We’re just nipping up to Carpenters Road, Frank, if anyone wants us,’ he said.

  ‘Actually, sir,’ Tompkins replied, ‘I’ve got a man waiting to see you. He’s just arrived. Young fellow, a bit down in the mouth – probably disappointed, I should think.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘Well, judging by the look of him, he’s been in training for the Olympic Games – this year’s ones, I mean, the ones that never happened. Athletic type, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Jago. ‘It was supposed to be Tokyo, wasn’t it? Except they were too busy fighting the Chinese. Then it was Helsinki, but they were too busy being invaded by Russia, and now everyone’s too busy fighting everyone else. He’ll have to wait for 1944 – that’s when they’re supposed to be held in London, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think you’re right there, sir, but somehow I don’t think we’ll have finished the current spot of difficulty in time for that. Pity, though – your young man looks like he’ll be too old if he has to wait till 1948, assuming even those games happen. He’s in peak condition now, at any rate, as far as I can tell – perhaps we ought to see if he’d like to become a police constable. He’s got the height for it, and bigger muscles than I ever had.’

  ‘Ah, but you always had the cunning, didn’t you, Frank?’

  ‘Had? You should ask my missus about that. She reckons I’ve still got more than my fair share when it comes to dodging the chores.’

  ‘So where is this fine specimen of British manhood?’

  ‘I’ve put him in the interview room. You can’t miss him.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘He said it’s Wilson – Bert Wilson.’

  Jago and Cradock found Wilson sitting in the interview room, and from the sight of him they thought Frank’s assessment of his mood wasn’t too wide of the mark. He certainly looked preoccupied. As soon as they entered the room, he jumped to his feet.

  ‘Hello, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t sure whether I should disturb you, but I’ve had something on my mind and I thought I should come and see you. It’s about Joan.’

  ‘Yes – what is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s more about Mr Conway actually. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s just that there was something about the way he was with Joan. He was always sort of, well, pestering her.’

  ‘I see.’

  Jago gestured towards the chair, and Wilson sat down again.

  ‘How do you know he was pestering her?’

  ‘She told me. I think it was because her husband was away – maybe he thought she’d be up for a bit of play, if you get my drift. But she wasn’t like that. She was a lovely girl, like I told you before – sweet, gentle, tender-hearted. If it wasn’t for Joan I don’t know where I’d be now.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Why? I probably wouldn’t have a job, that’s why. When the Broadway got bombed I didn’t know what I’d do – I couldn’t go back to the job I’d had before that. But when Joan moved to the Regal, she said she’d put in a word for me with Mr Conway, and she must’ve done, because he took me on.’

  ‘You told us you knew Joan before you both went to work at the Regal. What was the nature of your relationship?’

  Wilson hesitated, a flicker of wariness in his eyes, but then looked straight at Jago.

  ‘It wasn’t a relationship,’ he replied. ‘We just got on well. She’s been a good friend to me. People look at me, and because I’m big they think I’m confident. You know how it is – you’re in the pub and someone’s had too much to drink, they always think if you’re a big bloke they’ll look good if they can take you on, maybe land a punch or two. Conway’s a bit like that. He likes to push me around at work because he knows I can’t do anything about it if I want to keep my job. Joan seemed to understand that – it was as though she knew just what he was doing, and she’d be on my side. She was the kind of girl you could talk to.’

  ‘You said just now that you couldn’t go back to your old job. What did you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’d been a doorman at the Broadway since the winter before last, and it was the first proper job I’d ever had – you know, the kind of job where you go to work every day and it’s all above board and you pay your taxes – and I didn’t get that till I was twenty-four. I left school at fourteen – couldn’t wait to get out, like lots of kids. But all I could find was labouring jobs, just bits and pieces here and there, nothing solid.’

  ‘And that’s what you were doing before you started work at the Broadway?’

  ‘No, for the last couple of years before that I had a different kind of job.’

  ‘And that’s what you couldn’t go back to?’

  ‘That’s right – the bloke I worked for had died, you see, and that was the end of the job.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Well, I was, er …’

  He hesitated again, casting a glance towards the door as if looking for an escape route.

  ‘You were what?’ said Jago.

  ‘I was, er, a debt collector. It’s like the doorman job, really – you know, if you’re big like me, people think you can do the strong-arm stuff and persuade the poor mugs to cough up the money they owe. Most of the time that’s all it needs, though – if you look like you’re capable of knocking them about, they’ll pay up sooner than take a chance and find out the hard way.’

  ‘But if the hard way was the only way?’

  ‘Look, Inspector, I’m not saying I’m proud of what I did, but I needed the job and I had to do what I was told.’

  ‘Was it a business you were collecting debts for?’

  ‘Sort of. More a person, really.’

  ‘And what was this person called?’

  ‘He was, er, Charlie Lewis.’

  ‘The father of your friend Richard Lewis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you told us you’d had no contact with Richard since you were fifteen or so. Were you telling us the truth?’

  ‘Yes, I swear. Straight up. I was desperate for work and I heard there was a bloke looking for a collector. It was only when I went to see him I found out it was Richard’s dad. I remembered him from when we were kids, see, and he always seemed to have a bob or two in those days, so I thought he’d pay all right.’

  ‘So you’re saying you worked for Richard’s father for two years but never once saw his son, who’d been your childhood friend?’

  ‘That’s right. Charlie said it was private work. I didn’t sit in an office all day where people like Richard might come in and see me. It was more like doing personal jobs for Charlie. Confidential, you know? Charlie paid to have a phone put in where I lived, and he’d call me and tell me where to go and who to see. It suited me fine – I only had to work when he needed me, and it turned out I was right, he did pay well.’

  ‘But didn’t you see this as an opportunity to get in touch with your friend?’

  ‘No. Mr Lewis didn’t want me to. He said I wasn’t to talk to a living soul about my work, and that included his son. It sounded like they didn’t get on. So I didn’t – I couldn’t afford to, could I? Then after two years Charlie died, and there was no more work for me. That’s when I went to work at the Broadway and got to know Joan.’

  ‘How close to her did you become? As a friend, you said.’

  ‘Hold on a minute – I know what you’re getting at. Was I sweet on her, you mean? Look, Inspector, I’m not the kind of bloke who sets their sights on other men’s wives, especially when they’re away serving their country.’

  ‘Of course. But she was the kind of girl you’d have found attractive if she’d been unmarried?’

  ‘If, yes – but that’s a big if. She was a married woman, and I don’t get involved with married women.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I hope you do. Now look, I came here to tell you about Conway, not to talk about my past, and I need to get down to the Regal now, so if you don�
�t mind, I’ll be on my way.’

  He got to his feet and stood facing Jago, as if despite his flash of anger he was still waiting to be dismissed.

  ‘Yes, by all means, Mr Wilson,’ said Jago. ‘Thank you very much for coming to see us.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Carpenters Road ran the length of a narrow strip of land bounded on its eastern side by the railway and to the west by the Waterworks River. Jago could remember when this, like the other channels that made up the Stratford back rivers, had been a filthy stream choked with rubbish, but after being dredged and widened just a few years before the war started, it was now surprisingly clean. The strip of land itself, however, remained an eyesore, every inch of it buried beneath seventy years of haphazard industrial construction. Now it was a warren of factories, works, chimneys and sheds, its air tainted by what seemed to Jago the smelliest industries imaginable. And as he drove down the road, he could see that the air raids had achieved what he would have thought impossible: added a new layer of disfigurement to its old ugliness.

  The Addingtons varnish factory was one of the leading producers of noxious odours, and it was situated at the far end of Carpenters Road. By the time they got there, Jago and Cradock had been assailed by everything from the bitter fumes of paint factories to the sweet, cloying smells of perfume manufacturers. The particular output of Addingtons seemed to fall somewhere between the two.

  The factory was a rambling, much-extended building of smoke-blackened brick, standing beside an untidy yard of unknown use. The detectives reported to the gatekeeper’s hut and were asked to wait while Marwell was fetched.

  The man who arrived a few minutes later looked in his mid to late twenties and seemed strikingly tall, although Jago wondered whether this was only because he was so thin, like a man stretched beyond his natural height. The legs of his stained overalls, not quite long enough, flapped round the top of his boots, but his arms were muscular. His hands were streaked with what looked like grease.

  He glanced from Jago to Cradock and back again, as if uncertain whom he should be addressing. Jago spoke first.