by Mike Hollow
“All right, Constable. Keep your mind on the job.”
“Yes, sir, sorry. Anyway, she didn’t bat an eyelid. You’d think it’d be the other way round, wife all worked up, worried about her poor injured hubby, crying all over the place. Maybe it wasn’t a bike at all. Maybe she’d been knocking him about.”
“I think you’d better restrain your imagination unless some evidence turns up,” said Jago. “But you’re saying you think he’s hiding something?”
“Yes. I asked him why he was saying it was some unknown cyclist who’d knocked him over when our PCs said they’d found him in the middle of the cemetery and he looked as though he’d been beaten up. He just looked worried, as if he didn’t know what to say, and then his wife stepped in and she explained it: said it was easy to get into the cemetery now the railings had been cut down for making into Spitfires or whatever it is, and they reckoned it must have been someone taking a short cut in the dark.”
“And what do you make of that?”
“Just seems odd to me that he’s the one who was there but she’s the one who knows what happened. He looked to me as though he’d had a fright. I think there’s more to it than meets the eye, but if he doesn’t tell us, we’re not likely to find out what.”
“I agree,” said Jago. “Good work.”
“Thanks, guv’nor,” said Cradock, with a smile and a hint of surprise in his voice.
“And now we’d better be on our way,” said Jago. “I need to go back to Invicta Printing Ltd and talk to Mr Edward Villiers again, see what he says when his mother’s not there. I want you to go and find this fellow Cooper and find out what he’s up to.”
He was about to open the door when there was a knock on the other side and Sergeant Tompkins came in.
“Excuse me, sir, but I’ve got a message for you. A lady phoned, said you hadn’t called her. Asked me to give you this message. Said she didn’t need a reply.” He handed a piece of paper to Jago and left.
Jago read it silently, folded it and put it in his pocket.
“Anything important, sir?” said Cradock.
“I don’t think so,” said Jago. “I shall be out this evening. I’ve been summoned to dine with that American reporter.”
“Somewhere nice, sir?”
“That I shall have to tell you tomorrow. It’s not one of my regular haunts.”
“Where is it, then?” said Cradock. “Just in case I need to contact you, of course.”
“Of course. It’s a little place called the Savoy Hotel.”
CHAPTER 14
Griggs was on duty at the entrance to the Invicta Printing premises when Jago arrived.
“Morning, squire,” he said, touching the front of his cap in a gesture that Jago might have taken as obsequious if he hadn’t already had dealings with the man. “Come to do a bit more digging? I reckon you’ll find more dirt than diamonds here.”
“I’ve come to see Mr Edward Villiers,” said Jago.
“Right-oh. He’ll be up the stairs over there in his dad’s old office, next to where I took you to see Mr Johnson. Do you want me to take you over?”
“I can find my own way, thank you, if you’ve no objection.”
“Suit yourself.”
Jago mounted the steps again and found Villiers in an office that was roomier than Johnson’s and noticeably better fitted.
“Come in,” said Villiers, shaking him by the hand. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Are you any nearer to finding out what happened to my father?”
Jago settled into an expensive-looking sofa.
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Do you still think it might have been suicide?”
“To be honest, Mr Villiers, I think it was not. I suspect your father was murdered, and that someone for whatever reason wanted to make it look like suicide.”
Villiers sat down too, in an armchair that matched the sofa.
“Well, that rather changes the picture. Does my mother know this?”
“No, not yet,” said Jago.
“Is it all right for me to tell her? I think it will come as a shock.”
“Yes, please do.”
“Very well. But murder – who would do a thing like that?”
“That’s what I was hoping you might be able to help me with. When I visited you and your mother on Sunday morning, I asked you both if you could think of any reason why someone might want to murder him. My recollection is that your answer suggested you didn’t, but you thought it possible he had enemies. Could you expand on that?”
Villiers lit a cigarette and blew smoke towards the ceiling, then leaned forward in his chair towards Jago, his face adopting a serious expression.
“Look, Inspector, I’m going to be perfectly frank with you. I think my father was a hypocrite, in the original Greek sense of the word – you know, play-acting. He liked people to think of him as a decent chap, bien soigné, a pillar of the community – distinguished retired officer, gentleman, successful businessman, magistrate keeping the streets safe. That’s the picture he liked to paint. Whether it convinced anyone I don’t know. I told you he was a private man, and he was. Maybe that was so that no one would get close enough to know him as he really was, rather than the image he presented to the world. My mother and I were the closest to him in that sense, but I didn’t feel I knew him. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that since I was a boy.”
“What about your mother?”
“I’ve always felt much closer to her.”
“No, I mean was she close enough to him to see beneath the surface?”
“I don’t think I could say. She was always very loyal to him, but she may have had her own reasons for that. You’ll have to ask her.”
“So what grounds do you have to say your father was not the man he claimed to be?”
“Well, nothing very specific, but for one thing I didn’t like the way he treated my mother. He could be very suave and sophisticated when he wanted to be, but with her I think he was patronizing at best, and at worst he was cruel. He was definitely king of the castle in our home, and in his marriage too – a bit Victorian in that way, I suppose.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“I don’t think she was allowed to know anything about the money side of things. He gave her the housekeeping, but she had to ask him for money for clothes; I’ve heard her doing it. It’s certainly no surprise that she knew nothing about the state of the business. I work here and I realized some time ago that I don’t know the half of it either.”
“Do you mean the business was in trouble?”
“No, I mean I think there were jobs that weren’t going through the books.”
“Do you have any evidence for that?”
“No, I don’t think I do. Nothing on paper that you could make a case with. It’s just one or two odd goings-on I’ve seen at the works, when I’ve had to stay late after the staff have gone home, odd snippets of conversation I’ve overheard. I don’t have any specific evidence, but I’ve wondered for a long time whether he was doing jobs on the side, for cash – what you might call informal enterprise.”
“So nothing you can put your finger on?”
“No. For all I know he could have been smuggling tinned peaches out of the docks and selling them on the black market. I’ve really no idea. All I know is this: he may have been stingy with my mother, but he never seemed short of cash. If you’re wondering who might have killed him, maybe you should be looking to see if he had any murky underworld connections. Not the sort of thing you’d expect of a magistrate, but then as I’ve said, I think my father spent a lot of time putting on an act.”
“Thank you, Mr Villiers,” said Jago. “You’ve been very helpful. Now if you’ll excuse me I’d like to have a few words with Mr Johnson.”
Jago tapped on the door of the neighbouring office and opened it. Johnson looked up from his desk. He was talking on the phone, the handset propped between his left shoulder and his ear as he searched with
both hands through a mess of papers. He lowered his voice in what Jago assumed was a rapid curtailment of the conversation and put the phone down.
“Good morning, Inspector,” said Johnson. “Do take a seat. You must excuse me: with Mr Villiers unfortunately no longer with us I’m having to deal with some of the customers, and the paperwork isn’t all as tidy as one might wish.”
He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, opened it and extended it towards Jago.
“Cigarette?”
“No thanks.”
Johnson took one out for himself and lit it.
“How can I help you?”
“I won’t take long,” said Jago. “I’m just trying to tidy up a few loose ends of my own. Can you tell me how tall you are?”
Johnson looked surprised.
“I’m six foot two.”
“And Mr Villiers?”
“I’d say he was about five foot eight. But what’s that got to do with anything? I’m very busy, Mr Jago.”
“I want you to think back to Saturday evening. You told me that you’d driven Mr Villiers in the van and that he dropped you off at about twenty past eight and you walked home. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it was about then.”
“But I have a witness who says he saw that same van backing into some premises in Plaistow at about a quarter past eight, with two men in the front, the driver taller than the passenger. Even allowing for the fact that you and the witness weren’t using the same watch, it would be quite a coincidence for Mr Villiers to drop you off, have time to pick up a new driver who was the same height as you or a passenger who happened to be as much shorter than him as he was than you, and arrive at those premises at the same time as he was dropping you off somewhere else. Would you agree?”
Johnson paused for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m afraid what I said to you wasn’t entirely accurate. I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.”
“In that case I must ask you to answer my questions more carefully, Mr Johnson. I’m sure you know that if you were to make a false statement under oath in court you would be committing a criminal offence. This is a murder enquiry, and it is most important that you answer truthfully and accurately.”
Johnson looked shocked.
“Murder? But yesterday you said Mr Villiers had committed suicide.”
“I asked you if he was the kind of man who might take his own life. That’s not quite the same thing.”
Johnson was silent for a few moments, as though thinking, before he spoke again.
“I understand. The truth is Mr Villiers didn’t drop me off. I drove all the way to that place, following his directions.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“I would have said it was twenty past eight, but if your witness says a quarter past it’s quite possible it was then. I didn’t check my watch at that point.”
“And what happened when you got there?”
“Mr Villiers went in, but he told me to wait outside.”
“So do you have any idea what he was doing, why he’d gone there?”
“No, I don’t. I thought it was a bit strange, though. I assumed it must be something private, not normal business, otherwise he wouldn’t have kept me outside.”
“If it wasn’t normal business, what did you think it was?”
“To be honest, I thought it was possibly something a bit irregular. You know, something he didn’t want me or anyone else to know about. But I didn’t see or hear anything to prove that; it was just the feeling I had.”
“Do you know whose premises they were?”
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t the faintest idea, and it struck me at the time that Mr Villiers clearly didn’t want to tell me.”
“So what happened next?”
“I was beginning to think maybe there was some funny business going on, when the door opened. Mr Villiers stuck his head out and said he was going to be busy, and so I’d better find my own way home on foot.”
“Funny business? You didn’t say anything about funny business when we spoke to you yesterday.”
A look of concern crossed Johnson’s face. He hesitated, then answered.
“Look, Inspector, I hope you’ll understand. I didn’t know what Mr Villiers might be involved in, but whatever it was, I didn’t want to get mixed up in it. If you want my honest answer, I’ve got an idea he was making some sort of delivery to that place.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just that he didn’t normally take the van home. He must have had some reason for going in the van.”
“Did you look to see what was in the back of the van?”
“No. Why should I? When you’re driving the man who owns the company, you don’t check what he might be taking out. It’s the staff you have to keep an eye on. You may find that strange, but that’s the way it is. I thought he might be delivering something, but I didn’t know what, and I didn’t want to know. I try to keep my nose clean, Mr Jago.”
“Is that why you didn’t tell me this yesterday: to keep your nose clean?”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to keep out of the whole business. I don’t know what he was doing there; it was something private between him and his customer.”
Jago tried to read Johnson’s face, but it was impassive.
“So, when Mr Villiers opened the door, did you see anyone else?”
“No, he only opened it a fraction, on one of those chains, and it was dark: everything was blacked out by then.”
“So what did you do?”
“I walked home, as I said to you yesterday. In fact I ran part of the way when I heard the sirens go off, and I spent the rest of the night in my friend’s shelter. I went home when the all-clear sounded.”
“Could you give me the name and address of this friend of yours?”
“Yes. His name’s Bob Gray and he lives at 9 Prince Regent Lane; he’s got the upstairs flat there.”
Jago added the details to his notebook.
“So why did you give me a different version of events yesterday?”
“I’m truly sorry, Inspector. I didn’t mention being there because I really didn’t know what Mr Villiers was doing, and I thought it might be something fishy. I’ve never been in any sort of trouble, and I didn’t want to get mixed up in anything like that, so when I heard he’d been found dead I suppose I panicked. I’m sorry, it was a stupid thing to do, but I thought it would just be easier to say I wasn’t there.”
“Thank you, Mr Johnson,” said Jago. “And next time I ask you a question, I would advise you to think carefully and give me an accurate answer.”
When Cradock got to Whitwell Road there was no sign of Cooper, but plenty of evidence of the previous night’s work by the Luftwaffe. On one side of the road, where a house, or probably two, had stood for generations until yesterday, there was now only wreckage, and half of the adjoining property had been torn away by the blast. Cradock had seen demolition sites before, but never anything with this air of crazy randomness. Before him lay a tangle of smashed bricks, tiles, and timber, mingled with the twisted remains of everything that had once made this someone’s home. The shade of a standard lamp was perched incongruously on top of an unhinged door, and what looked like a zinc washtub, dented and battered but still miraculously holding a pair of washing tongs, lay on its side on a pile of rubble, mocked by the sooty filth that covered everything.
He looked at the exposed carcass of the house next door. An iron bedstead was hanging over the edge of what remained of a bedroom floor, and a delicate floral pattern was still visible on the strips of wallpaper that fluttered behind it. He felt as though he were intruding on someone’s privacy. He wondered if anyone had been in when the houses were hit. Any bodies would have been removed by the rescue units during the night, or might still lie buried in the basement if there was one. The proximity of death was disturbing. He had woken this morning in the shelter. Not much sleep, but at least he had survived. He began to fee
l guilty that he was alive while others with just as strong a claim to life as his were dead. People would be wandering through debris like this today in agonies of grief. His own work for the day seemed trivial in comparison.
He turned away from the scene of destruction. He needed to find Cooper, if his place was still standing. He checked his notebook for the address the warden had given him. Number 58 was a dingy, three-storey building in the style of many in the area, with a parapet façade concealing a low pitched roof. Perhaps the people who built them seventy or eighty years ago had thought the style smart, but whenever Cradock saw a row of these bleak, brick rectangles he found the effect depressing.
The ground floor looked as though it might once have been a shop, but now the windows were boarded up and the paint on the masonry around them was peeling. Above them the brickwork had been gnawed by something toxic in the air, and to one side of the front door a pair of heavy wooden doors were rotting at the bottom. They were closed, but he guessed this was where Villiers’ van had been seen backing into the yard or whatever space lay behind them.
He knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. He banged on the double doors, then grabbed a round doorknob and rattled them as hard as he could until he heard a voice.
“All right, all right, I’m coming.”
He heard the sound of a heavy bolt being shot on the other side. The door was pulled back a little and an elderly, stooping man in a greasy jacket and with a dirty muffler round his neck poked his head out.
“Yes?” he said.
“I’m looking for Mr Cooper,” said Cradock. “Do you work for him?”
“I do. He’s not here.”
“Can you tell me where I can find him?”
The man looked him up and down. To Cradock it seemed as though he were deciding whether this specimen was a suitable visitor for his employer. The man must have concluded that he was.
“He’s at home. Go down there, to the end of this road, and you’ll come out opposite the Plaistow Baths on Balaam Street. Turn right there, then left into Barking Road, and his house is down on the left, number 467.
