The Smog (A Jean Clarke Mystery Book 1)

by Timothy Allsop

  Harry sighed.

  ‘Will you let me do the talking then? I don’t want to offend them unnecessarily.’

  ‘I can be tactful.’

  Harry gave a snort but he knew there was no point in continuing his protest. There was a feeling of inevitability about his sister’s growing interference in his affairs.

  ‘Let’s get it over with then,’ he said.

  They left the hotel and walked eastward where the streets were surprisingly busy. As Jean observed the sorry looking figures shuffling along the street, shrinking from the cold, she began to turn over what her brother said. It was the first proper conversation they had had in years and it disturbed her how closely their feelings corresponded. When she thought about her situation it seemed Harry’s belief that things were becoming more of a mess was true. In wartime she had muddled through as everyone else had done, living simply from day to day. The war came like a great stopper in her life, but it had somehow become stuck so that she was suddenly approaching thirty and was still married to a man whose hold over her had continued for so long that it seemed impossible to shake. She could blame Harry for leaving; she could certainly have blamed her parents, but she knew that she had been too weak to consider other options, however limiting those other options may have appeared. She thought, for example, of two women from her village that married American servicemen and had emigrated to North Carolina and Minnesota after the end of the war. She could have found a dozen better husbands than Frank or she could have remained unmarried. Why had she not seen how unhappy she would become? She knew this feeling of self-pity too well. Her pregnancy gave her too much time to think but for now, at least, with her brother at her elbow, she felt a new momentum growing within her like a piston gaining speed.

  They arrived at a house with a formidable black door. Harry knocked three times, stepped back and brushed lint from the front of his coat. The door opened partially and a portion of a man’s face glowered from the shadows.

  ‘Michael, it’s Harry’

  ‘Have you found her?’ Michael replied, with a cold look on his face.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Michael, this is my sister, Jean,’ Harry said, standing aside and emphasising her name slowly which made Jean feel as if she had been the subject of a conversation between the two men.

  Michael opened the door a little more.

  ‘Your sister?’

  He glanced at her face, but seemed immediately caught off guard and bobbed his head wildly.

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I suppose you’d better come in,’ he said, trying to regain his composure.

  He swung the door wide open and ushered them in with a wave of his arm.

  ‘I’m afraid Joe is not here and I need to pop out shortly to pick up some shopping. The pantry is empty and what with this weather I haven’t been out. It makes you want to curl up and die. Wretched coal factories. I swear things would be much better if we all went back to candlelight.’

  Michael’s apartment was a revelation to Jean. Despite being a modest size, Michael’s tastes were clearly baroque and his living room walls were covered with an array of paintings, the frames of which were out of proportion to the scale of the picture contained within their borders.

  They sat down and Michael looked Jean over.

  ‘You’re his younger sister I take it?’

  ‘Only by a couple of years.’

  ‘You’re not a Londoner?’

  ‘No. I live near Norwich.’

  ‘Near Norwich. Well those are two dreadful words to put together. I should think the last thing you’d want to be was near Norwich,’ Michael said.

  Jean felt she was embarrassing herself in front of her brother but wasn’t sure why.

  ‘And you two know each other from where?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Through Phyllis,’ Harry answered, quickly. ‘Michael is a close friend of Phyllis.’

  Jean looked around at the room and it didn’t make sense to her. Why would this man be friends with Phyllis? This was not Phyllis’s world. She wasn’t quite sure what world this was but the room with its eclectic art and books felt like an exotic island, far removed from the pubs of East London.

  ‘How did you and Phyllis meet?’ Jean asked Michael.

  ‘At a bar. We danced together. We even dated for a little while but Harry was the lucky fellow who had the courage to marry her,’ Michael said, his eyes resting heavily on Harry.

  Jean could tell that Harry was utterly uncomfortable and she had to admit that she too felt on edge.

  ‘And when was the last time you saw her?’ Jean continued.

  ‘About five days ago. We went out for supper.’

  ‘And you have no idea where she is now.’

  ‘Jean!’ Harry said.

  ‘What is this? Am I a suspect now?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Of course you’re not Michael. It’s just I had a run in with some men last night at one of the pubs Phyllis used to go to and then my window was smashed in this morning,’ Harry explained.

  ‘Goodness. So Phyllis has got herself into some bother.’

  ‘I suppose she must have. We’re checking with everyone who knows her.’

  ‘You know full well I haven’t seen her and you know I’d be the first to tell you if I had,’ Michael said, a hint of frustration in his voice.

  ‘I know. I told my sister that, but she wanted to meet you,’ said Harry. ‘We should go.’

  ‘And what about your friend Joe?’ Jean continued.

  This seemed to put Michael on the back foot. He shot a glance at Harry and then he got up from his chair and paced over to the window.

  ‘Don’t keep on Jean,’ Harry said.

  ‘You said they were both friends of Phyllis’s. I wondered if Joe knew anything. Is he a close friend of yours?’

  Michael stood by the window stiff as a board, not looking at either Jean or Harry.

  ‘I can tell you right now he has no idea where Phyllis is. What is this Harry? Are you deliberately trying to wind me up?’ said Michael, in no way attempting to mask his anger.

  ‘Not at all. Jean let’s go. It’s nearly lunch anyway,’ Harry said, lifting himself out of his seat.

  The mention of lunch reminded Jean of Charlie and the conversation she’d half overheard about a meeting at The Angel pub. She looked at her watch. It was already midday. She felt a longing to see Charlie again.

  ‘You’re right. I’m sorry we burst in like this. My brother is very upset.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’re all terribly worried about her,’ Michael answered.

  ‘May I use your bathroom?’ Jean asked.

  Michael showed her to the bathroom and then returned to the living room. Harry came over to him but Michael stepped back.

  ‘What are you playing at? Bringing your sister here to put me through the Spanish Inquisition? You know damn well I haven’t seen her since the other night.’

  ‘I know. Jean insisted on coming. I think she suspects I know more than I’m letting on.’

  ‘Don’t you think she’s doubly suspicious now? I mean what do you expect me to say? I can’t bear telling any more lies Harry. I’m sick of it. You and Phyllis can keep your little fairy story going if you like, but you have no right to bring me and Joe into this,’ Michael said, half under his breath.

  ‘The thing is Michael, I think you’re the one who knows something and you’re not telling me.’

  ‘How bloody dare you. You know full well what happened that night.’

  ‘You deliberately got me soused and I think you set it up on purpose.’

  Jean was in the bathroom, looking through some of Michael’s belongings. She did not trust him an inch and the entire house made her feel uneasy. There was always something to learn about someone by looking at his home, and even if the owner had gone to great lengths to fill his house with a certain kind of lifestyle (which in itself provided a wealth of information), there were the details of everyday life which were no
t so easily hidden. It simply required a certain kind of eye to see them and Jean knew she had an eye for such things. She noticed, for example, that there were two razors in his cabinet. One she had finished in the bathroom, she moved along the hall and looked into each of the rooms. There was a bedroom study which had rarely been used for sleeping. She found the main bedroom. The bed was unmade. By the window there was a worn armchair and on one of its arms was a copy of The Times and by the foot of the chair a pile of books, with bookmarks in two or three of them. Michael evidently spent a lot of time in this room. She then saw two pairs of slippers under the bed, both different sizes and both of them for men. The two razors suddenly made sense.

  She wanted to leave immediately. She made her way back to the living room and on entering she saw her brother and Michael standing close to one another. Harry moved away toward the window and his move made her suspicious. She looked at Michael, took in the cut of his jacket and then peered back at her brother. A wave of anger passed through her body. Years later, she would come to remember the fleeting image of Michael and her brother in close proximity as the moment at which she began to understand her brother on his terms, but for now, she was filled with grief and betrayal, as though Harry's every action had been a series of lies directed toward her.

  ‘Harry I need to go,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, right,’ Harry said.

  ‘Why don’t you stay and talk with your friend and let me go and check out this property on our list. I never got round to it yesterday.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I will meet you back at the hotel in a couple of hours. Sorry to have troubled you Mr…’ she said, trying to find a surname and then realizing that she hadn’t been properly introduced and now she said, ‘Michael. Yes. Sorry for interrupting your day. Have a very pleasant Christmas,’ and she turned quickly and went to the front door.

  ‘Jean, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she answered as she opened the door and left before Harry could follow her.

  She had no recollection of walking back to the hotel. Her mind was stumbling over a memory she had buried and forgotten because at the time it had seemed unreal. The first thing she recalled was the image of two feet with red painted toenails, like a set of bloodied teeth. Jean was leaning against the roots of a large oak tree with her friends, Gladys and Dorothy. It was the middle of summer in 1942 and they had been fruit picking in the Thetford area. It was a fiddly job but Jean preferred it to the backbreaking work of planting. She loved the sweet smell of the raspberries and the sight of them was enough to set her tongue alight. She was also one of the best fruit pickers and sometimes managed to pick twice as fast as some of the other women.

  *

  It had been particularly hot and so during a lunch break the three women had set out across the fields to the edge of a small copse in search of decent shade. Jean removed her cardigan and opened the collar of her blouse. They sat, eating their lunch and looking over the fields which opened up before them like a benevolent hand. The war felt so very far away, even though they would hear the regular drone of American transport planes and see the odd Spitfire scratching the sky above them. They talked about their work and a recent remake of the picture Back Street they’d watched at a makeshift theatre at one of the American bases. It was a love story about a woman who became the mistress of a banker.

  ‘I adore Margaret Sullivan as Ray Smith,’ Gladys said. ‘She was absolutely perfect.’

  ‘I much prefer the Irene Dunne performance,’ Dorothy replied. ‘I always find remakes a terrible letdown.’

  Jean was used to Gladys and Dorothy taking opposite views on almost everything.

  ‘What did you think Jeanie?’

  Jean wasn’t sure what she thought about the film.

  ‘I think it was sad that they could never be properly together,’ she said, after some thought.

  ‘That’s love for you,’ Gladys said.

  ‘But if I was going to have an affair, I think I should choose someone more exciting than a banker,’ Jean continued.

  ‘Love Affair is a much better picture.’ Dorothy said. ‘And Irene Dunne is much prettier than Margaret Sullivan.’

  ‘You think so?’ Gladys said, with a look of incredulity.

  The three of them continued to gossip, counting the clock by the number of cigarettes Gladys smoked because she always had one on the go.

  ‘Now girls, are you both going to the dance?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Dorothy said. ‘It’s fun to watch the Yanks have a go at trying to court an English girl.’

  ‘Yes sweetie. Courting, in your case, meaning a jolly good fondle around the back of Arkwright’s barn,’ Gladys replied.

  ‘Oh shut up, I’ve never been with anyone behind Arkwright’s barn and you bloody well know it. I admit I’ve been to talk to the cows when I’ve been a little squiffy,’ Dorothy said. ‘What about you Jeanie?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My parents wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘I think you should do as you please. You’re twenty, aren’t you?’ Gladys said, flicking a fly off her foot. ‘I think it’s time you behaved like a proper lady.’

  ‘I don’t want to upset father when he’s been so poorly. He doesn’t like the Americans much anyway. He thinks they are arrogant and don’t know how to fight a war.’

  ‘Yes, well I think some of them are pretty brave to fly around up there in those tin cans,’ Gladys said. ‘Don’t you Dorothy?’

  ‘I don’t really like to think about it. Anyway Jeanie your father doesn’t need to worry. The airmen are a bit lippy but they’re gentlemen compared to the army boys. Some of them are right brutes,’ Dorothy answered.

  ‘I like brutish. I want brutish all over me five times a day,’ Gladys said, giggling.

  Dorothy started laughing too and even Jean managed a smile.

  ‘Have you even kissed a man Jeanie?’ Gladys asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  Jean hesitated, ‘Oliver Naylor.’

  ‘Olly Naylor. When was that? He’s been married two years?’

  ‘The summer after we finished school.’

  ‘Oh my God, but that’s years ago,’ Gladys said, shaking her head. ‘That’s settled it. You are definitely coming. I don’t care what your father says. We’ll steal you away in the night if we have to.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine,’ Jean said.

  ‘Don’t want to end up like Edith Miller,’ Gladys persisted. ‘Sixty and unmarried.’

  Jean smiled, a little fed up at being treated like a schoolgirl.

  ‘We’ll say we’re having a night out, just the three of us. He won’t object to that,’ Dorothy said, looking at her watch. ‘We should head back.’

  ‘I’m going to have another smoke first,’ Gladys said, taking out a pack of American cigarettes. ‘Jeanie, come and sit next to me and keep me company.’

  ‘I got to spend a penny. I’ll see you back over there.’

  Jean walked off through the trees until she found a secluded patch and squatted down. Above her the sun broke through the canopy of ash trees. It upset her when she thought about how unsophisticated she was when it came to men. Since the Americans had joined the war it seemed like there was more fun to be had and that everyone apart from her was having it. Perhaps she would make an effort to go to the dance. From above her came the gaggle of three or four ducks searching for a watering hole. The sound was ugly and it made her feel ugly too, an ugly duckling pissing in a wood.

  She walked out along the edge of the field and back towards the farm building but then a breeze reminded her that she’d tucked her cardigan against the tree where she and the girls had eaten their lunch. She went back to fetch it, but as she came close to Gladys and Dorothy she stopped dead. Their lips were touching. Jean slid her body behind the trunk of a nearby tree and watched. Gladys an
d Dorothy continued to kiss. A thin trail of smoke drifted up from the cigarette Gladys was holding. Jean’s eyes trailed the smoke and then they fell back upon the women’s bodies and she saw Dorothy’s hand on Gladys’s leg. Dorothy moved up beneath her skirt and all the sounds of the wood disappeared and all Jean could hear was the murmur of something that came from deep within Gladys. It terrified Jean to think that the body could be so easily contacted. The image of the two women seemed to tear at the landscape, seemed an affront to the sky and the fields. Jean turned away and started walking. She felt the crack of a stick breaking under her foot but didn’t look back to see if the women had seen her.

  *

  Jean arrived back at the hotel, and as she entered she felt a hot wave pass fiercely through her body. The concierge asked if she was all right but she walked by without answering him. She went straight to her room, shut the door and stripped down to her knickers. For a moment she stood in the mirror and looked at her body and then she went to her bag, opened it and took out Phyllis’s green dress. She had sneaked it into her bag before she and Harry had left his house. With a little effort she slipped it over her body and worked the zipper up at the back, sucking her stomach in as far as she could manage and pushing her shoulders forward to make it fit. She took her brush and worked her hair as best she could into a shape not dissimilar to Phyllis’s. Her shoes didn’t quite match but they would do, she thought, as she wrapped her winter coat around her.

  She went down to the foyer and asked the concierge if she could use the phone. It took the operator a while to connect her through to The Angel in Bethnal Green. A raspy female voice answered and Jean asked for the address, wrote it down and then hung up.

  ‘Another girl has been killed,’ the concierge said, throwing the paper he was reading onto the desk in front of Jean.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Haven’t you been reading the papers? Another murdered girl. One was found in the east end six weeks ago and now this one in Stepney.’

  ‘Are you done with this?’ she said, taking the paper.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘When my brother returns tell him I’ll be back tonight,’ Jean said, putting the address into her pocket. ‘Can you call me a taxi please?’