by Mike Hollow
Before he could make up his mind whether to ask another question, the decision was made for him. He heard the chilling scream of a bomb descending, then the loudest blast he had heard all evening. It was followed swiftly by another. Jago was already on his feet.
“Quick!” he shouted. “They’re getting a bit close – run for it! Follow me!”
Jago began to dash for the end of the street, with Cradock hot on his heels. They reached the junction, turned right and flung themselves behind a wall. An ear-splitting explosion from the street they’d just left showered them with soil and fragments of debris. The noise stopped, and they hauled themselves to their feet.
Cradock was first back to the turning they’d just left. He looked down the street where they had been sheltering and saw it immediately. Where the van had been standing there was now nothing – just a gaping crater.
Jago caught up with him and took in the new scene.
“Wonderful,” he said. “So now we have a suspected murder, with no body, no evidence, not even a crime scene. Just a hole in the road.”
CHAPTER 7
The woman who opened the door looked in her mid-forties, with neat auburn hair and careful make-up. She wore a well-fitting jersey dress, and spoke and moved with a measure of distraction, like an actress still getting into her role.
“Good morning,” she said. “The constable said you’d be calling. Do come in.”
She stood to one side and ushered them into a spacious hallway. The house was at the more comfortable end of the borough: a detached Victorian residence in Forest Gate, with attractive detailing in the brickwork and facias. Situated in a quiet road just a stone’s throw from the grassy expanse of Wanstead Flats, it was as close as you could get to rural in West Ham.
“Mrs Muriel Villiers?” said Jago.
“Yes.”
“I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Cradock. Please allow me to express my condolences. I gather you’ve been informed of what happened.”
“Yes,” she replied. “The constable said my husband had been found dead during the air raid, and that then he –”
She broke off. The composed expression on her face gave way to one of distress.
“Yes, I’m sorry, Mrs Villiers. Shortly after he was found, a bomb landed very close by.” Now it was Jago’s turn to hesitate as he sought the right words. “There are no identifiable remains.”
“But you’re sure it was my husband?”
“Before the bomb fell we had seen his identity card, and I recognized him from seeing him on the bench at the magistrates’ court.”
“I see. Won’t you come through to the drawing room?”
They followed her into a room with large windows and comfortable-looking soft chairs. A young man was sitting there, whom she introduced as Edward, her son. They accepted her invitation to sit.
“I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, but I’m afraid I have to ask you a few questions,” said Jago.
“Yes, of course.”
“You see, we’re not convinced it was an accident.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’re exploring other possible causes of death. Please forgive me for asking what may be a painful question, but can you think of any reason why Mr Villiers might want to take his own life?”
From the corner of his eye Jago saw a look of surprise on Cradock’s face, but he commanded silence with a glance. Mrs Villiers seemed not to have noticed it, and her own face maintained its composure.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say. My husband was not in the habit of confiding in me about his plans for the day, let alone his inner torments.”
“Did he have any?”
“Torments? If he did, I wouldn’t know about it. My husband was what you might call an officer and gentleman of the old school. He didn’t talk to me about his business or about his feelings. I think he felt the weaker sex was not to be troubled by such things.”
“Would you mind telling me what your husband’s business was?” said Jago. “I’m aware of him as a magistrate, but I’ve never known what he did with the rest of his week.”
“He owned a printing business,” said Mrs Villiers. “I think he used to manage to sit as a magistrate once a week, or once a fortnight. It’s easier for people who’ve retired or have a private income and don’t have to work, but he was still very busy with the business – yesterday he was at work all day and didn’t come home. I don’t think he was able to give the court as much time as he would have liked to.”
“And are you aware of any business difficulties or other pressures in his life that could have driven him to take his own life?”
“I’m not aware of any, but that doesn’t mean there couldn’t have been any. He certainly wasn’t himself in the last few weeks. As far as I know he was still making plenty of money, but he definitely seemed preoccupied: something on his mind.”
“Worried?”
“I think you could say that, yes.”
“So your husband ran a printing business. Can you tell me more about it?”
“Not much. The print works isn’t very big, but I think things had picked up with the war. Government contracts for leaflets, that sort of thing. I’m sure Edward knows more about it than I do, though: he works there.”
Jago turned to her son.
“Mr Villiers, do you have any reason to think your father might have taken his own life?”
“I think he would have despised the idea,” said Edward. “My father seemed to have rather a gift for despising.”
“What do you mean?”
“Three months or so ago some poor soul was fished out of the river. Left a note. Well, it happens from time to time, doesn’t it? I don’t need to tell you that. But in this case it turned out he was related to one of our employees. I remember my father saying at the time that suicide was a form of cowardice. That was one of many things he despised. Cowards should be shot: you know, pour encourager les autres, that kind of thing. He was an old soldier, you see, and I suppose it was something to do with that. I can’t imagine him doing something he despised so heartily.”
“But is it possible that for some reason he found himself under such pressure or threat that he began to detect precisely that in himself? Might that not have driven him to contemplate suicide?”
“You’re playing with words, Inspector. I cannot speculate on what my father might have been thinking. All I can say is I find it difficult to believe he would take his own life.”
Jago rose from his chair and walked across the room to the French windows. He studied the view of the garden for a moment, then turned round to face into the room and addressed the mother and son.
“In that case, can either of you think of any reason why someone might want to murder Mr Villiers?”
He looked first at Edward. The young man shrugged his shoulders and shook his head slowly.
“I suppose he might have had enemies,” he said, “and someone might have wanted to, but I can’t imagine who. He didn’t confide in me either.”
Jago turned to Mrs Villiers and raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
“Murder?” she said. “The idea’s absurd. Why would anyone want to murder him?”
“That’s what I was rather hoping you could tell me,” said Jago.
“I told you, I know nothing of my husband’s affairs, business or private. He led his life and I mine.”
“Would you describe yourselves as a close married couple?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by that. If you mean did we live in each other’s pockets, then no, it wasn’t like that.”
Edward got to his feet and stood facing Jago with his chin angled slightly upwards. Striking a pose, thought Jago.
“What my mother means is that he was married to the business first, and to her second.”
“Edward,” said Mrs Villiers, “how could you? Mr Jago, my husband’s business affairs were very demanding.
He had to work long hours, and we didn’t spend a lot of time together.”
“Had to, or chose to?” said Edward.
She gave Jago a beseeching look. “Inspector, please pay no attention to my son. He and his father didn’t always see eye to eye, and I’m afraid he sometimes says things he doesn’t mean.”
“I’m sure Mr Villiers can speak for himself,” said Jago, turning to the young man. “Do you live here with your mother, sir?”
“Yes, I do,” said Edward.
“And may I ask your age?”
“Twenty.”
“Had your call-up papers yet?”
“No.”
“But you’ve registered?”
“Yes, I registered a month or so ago, but I was found medically unfit.”
“I see. And you’re employed in the family business?”
“Yes, I work for my father. Or I suppose I should say worked, now.”
“And how would you describe your relationship with your father?”
“Well, he wasn’t the sort of chap to do me any favours at work, just because I was his son.”
“And you know of no one who might have wished your father harm?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. But if the way he treated his own son is anything to go by, I imagine he could have left a whole host of resentful people in his wake.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he drove a hard bargain. Devil take the hindmost, that sort of thing. Perhaps it just means he was a good businessman. How would I know? He didn’t take me into his confidence. I think I was rather a disappointment to my father. Not quite the son he wanted.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs Villiers. “You were the apple of his eye.”
Jago turned back to her.
“Who inherits the business?”
“I do.”
“And what will become of it now?”
“God knows. I suppose Edward and I will end up running it. I doubt very much that we’d be able to sell it in the present circumstances. But I really know nothing about it.”
“So if I have any questions about the business, who should I talk to?”
Edward stepped forward.
“I don’t think my mother is in a position to advise you on that, Inspector. I would suggest you talk to Johnson. He was my father’s right-hand man in the business, or something close to it. The éminence grise of the print shop. He knew a lot more than my father about printing, that’s for sure. But I don’t know whether anyone knew anything about my father’s business affairs, not even Johnson. As you’ve probably gathered, my father was a rather private man, at least as far as we were concerned.”
Mrs Villiers picked up a silver cigarette case from a small table.
“Inspector, I didn’t offer you or your colleague a cigarette. Will you have one?”
“Not for me, thank you,” said Jago. “Nor for my colleague. We’re almost finished.”
“You’ll excuse me if I do. This has all been rather demanding.” She took a cigarette and offered the case to Edward, who also took one. Jago observed the way she smoked it. He might have expected her to be tense, but as he watched her the word that came to mind was languid.
He took an envelope from his pocket and produced the knife they had found in the van.
“Has either of you seen this before?”
Mrs Villiers looked at it and shook her head.
“Could it belong to Mr Villiers?”
“It’s possible,” said Mrs Villiers, “but I’ve never seen it, so I really can’t say.”
“And you, sir?”
“I don’t know either,” said Edward, turning away.
“Take a close look, please,” said Jago.
Edward approached and bent to examine the knife.
“Actually, yes, I believe it is his. It looks very similar to one he used to carry at work. I couldn’t swear to it, but I’d say it looks like his to me.”
Jago replaced the knife in the envelope.
“Thank you. Now I must ask you both where you were last night between the hours of seven and ten,” he said.
Mrs Villiers moved to the window, holding her cigarette to one side.
“We were both in the Anderson shelter,” said Edward, “weren’t we, mother. There was the air raid.”
“Yes,” she said, not looking round.
“Can anyone else confirm that?”
“Well, it wasn’t a cocktail party.”
“I’ll take that as no. Just one last question, Mrs Villiers,” said Jago. “Is there any more family?”
She turned to face him.
“Edward was our only child. My husband’s parents are both deceased, as are mine. There’s just one relative, my husband’s brother. He’s called Arthur Villiers, a retired solicitor, unmarried. He lives out at Brentwood, where I believe he amuses himself by commanding the local Home Guard. I don’t think you need to add him to your list of suspects.”
“Thank you, Mrs Villiers. That will be all for now.”
She showed them to the door and closed it behind them. As the sound of their feet trudging across the gravel drive faded, she leaned back against the door and exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke towards the ceiling.
“Why didn’t you tell them the truth about him?” said Edward. “He was an unscrupulous bully.”
“How can you say such a thing?” said Muriel.
“It’s true, and you know it,” he replied, raising his voice. “And as far as I’m concerned, the world’s a better place without him.”
CHAPTER 8
“Come.”
The Divisional Detective Inspector’s voice sounded faintly through the heavy wooden door. Like a duke summoning his butler, thought Jago. Only one rank between them, but it wasn’t the first time Jago had seen what happened when a bit of promotion went to a man’s head. Perhaps he was jumping to conclusions, though. He tried to be more generous: Soper might be thinking it was one of the constables at the door, not him. He turned the handle and stepped into the office, followed by Cradock. The DDI was at his desk, studying a file.
“Ah, good morning, John,” he said, looking up. “Take a seat.”
Jago hung his coat, hat, and gas mask on the coat stand in the corner of the office, then positioned himself carefully on the flimsy-looking upright wooden chair that stood before the desk. It offered a marked contrast to the more ample leather-padded swivelling affair on the other side.
Cradock remained standing at the side of the room. It was eight o’clock on Monday morning, and after two nights of air raids and the beginnings of a murder inquiry he was anxious not to nod off.
Soper snapped the file shut.
“What’s this about a murder, then?”
“Suspected murder, sir. The body was found on Saturday evening, about nine thirty. We couldn’t get a doctor to him, but my guess is that he wasn’t long dead.”
“And do we know who the deceased is?”
“Yes, sir. It’s Charles Villiers, who was a magistrate, and we believe the killer tried to make it look like suicide.”
“Villiers of the Stratford bench?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Lord help us. And where’s the body?”
“Unfortunately, sir, destroyed by enemy action.”
“Destroyed by enemy action? Well, you know what they say: no body, no murder. You’ll have a job convincing the court there was a murder if you can’t produce a body.”
“In this case, sir, there was one, at least long enough for two witnesses to see it, in addition to Cradock and myself. I established the deceased’s identity and suspicion of murder to my satisfaction before the body was lost.”
“To your satisfaction, eh? And what about a jury’s satisfaction? And a magistrate, of all people. It’ll probably turn out he played golf with the Divisional Superintendent.”
“I’m sure we’ll be able to rely on the discretion of the press, sir, especially at a time like this. They don’t have a
s much space to print such reports as they used to.”
“Yes, but you know what people are like: no smoke without fire. I don’t know anything about this man’s private life, but if someone killed him and tried to make it look like suicide, there must have been grounds for them to think people would believe it.”
“That’s a very good point, sir. We’ll follow that up.”
“Well, carry on then. I suppose it’s too much to ask for a quiet life when the whole division’s being blown to pieces. Just clear it up as quickly as you can. What else do you have to go on?”
Jago beckoned Cradock, who pulled out his notebook and flicked through to the relevant page.
“Well, sir, the body was reported by a local lad, name of Carson, sixteen, an ARP bicycle messenger. But as far as we know at the moment there’s nothing to suggest any involvement on his part in the death of the deceased.”
“Anyone else you’re aware of who might have done it?” said Soper.
“He was a businessman as well as a magistrate,” said Jago. “It could have been a business rival, someone he’d cheated maybe, although we should perhaps assume he was as honest as the next magistrate.”
Soper gave him a quizzical look, but Jago continued.
“Or it could have been someone who’d been up before him in the police court. In that case, every villain in East London could be a suspect. The only people we’ve spoken to so far, though, are his wife Mrs Muriel Villiers and his son Edward Villiers.”
“Do you think one of them could have done it?” said Soper.
Jago turned to Cradock.
“What did they say, Constable?”
Cradock consulted his notes again.
“Mrs Villiers couldn’t think of anyone wanting to kill him, sir, and her son said he couldn’t imagine him committing suicide, so that doesn’t get us very far.”
“She didn’t rule out the possibility of suicide, though, did she?” said Jago. “Said he hadn’t been himself recently, was preoccupied, something on his mind.”
Soper’s eyes strayed to the files waiting on his desk.
“Anything else?”
“Well, sir,” said Cradock, “there didn’t seem to be much love lost between the three of them. Not what you might call the perfect family, or the perfect marriage for that matter. She wasn’t exactly grief-stricken either. If she was trying to encourage us in thinking it was suicide, it might suggest she had something to do with his death.”
