by Mike Hollow
Cradock paused for thought, stoking his mouth with food. He chewed, swallowed, and continued.
“I don’t know, but I can’t believe Johnson knows as little as he says. Mrs Carson says she overheard Villiers on the phone saying he was going to print something in the night. People keep telling us he didn’t know much about how to print, so if it turns out he was actually printing something on the side that no one was supposed to know about, how could he have done that on his own?”
“Unless it’s not true that he didn’t know much about printing.”
“Yes, or unless someone who does know all about printing helped him. Enter our Mr Johnson, I’d say. I’m sure he’s more mixed up in this than he lets on. Maybe it was him who did the printing in the night. And even if Villiers didn’t tell him who it was for, surely he’d have known when whatever it was left the Invicta premises and was delivered?”
“I haven’t been counting, Peter, but I have been listening, and there are too many maybes in all that. You could be right with any one of those explanations, but at the moment it’s all conjecture. We need some hard evidence. The most important thing we’ve found out today is what Mrs Carson said about Villiers mentioning Cooper’s name on the phone. Johnson’s already told us he thought Villiers might be up to something a bit irregular, but now if she’s telling the truth – and don’t forget there are no other witnesses, so we can’t be sure – if she’s telling the truth it definitely ties Villiers and Cooper together in what looks like some illegal printing job. And I don’t think either of us would be surprised if that was what Villiers was delivering to Cooper the night he was killed.”
“What could it have been?”
“Could be anything, couldn’t it? From passports to dirty postcards. Anything that someone can sell for a fat profit if the law doesn’t find out – that’s what I reckon. I doubt whether it would be anything as sophisticated as passports though, in a place that size. But whatever it was, there’s beginning to be a bit of a nasty smell around Mr Villiers, and every trail we follow seems to lead back to Cooper. Maybe he and Villiers had some disagreement over the deal.”
“Maybe, sir?”
“I’m allowed one or two. Now, when Johnson left the place in Whitwell Road on Saturday night to walk home, Villiers was still inside the building with Cooper, so as we’ve said, that makes Cooper the last person to see him alive, as far as we know. Cooper says he didn’t leave with Villiers in the van, but I don’t trust him. We know he’s been lying, because he denied knowing Villiers the first time you asked him, so he could have gone in the van with Villiers and then either made him stop or taken his chance when they stopped for some other reason. He’s got enough motive to be the killer, and a lot more opportunity than Mrs Carson or any of the others. As you said, he’s a nasty piece of work. We need to visit Mr Cooper and find out what he has to say now.”
Jago pushed his empty plate to one side. The stew had been good, but he wasn’t sure it would be wise to go back to the counter for a portion of suet pudding and custard. He had paperwork to attend to, and that had a tendency to make him feel sleepy, even without suet pudding. He thought Cradock would probably have no qualms about taking on the challenge, however.
“Enjoy your pudding, Peter. I’m going to skip it today. I’ve got to tidy up a few things in the office now. I want you to go and see Mrs Villiers and tell her that we think it was murder. Come and find me when you get back.”
“Yes, guv’nor,” said Cradock, without looking up. Before Jago reached the canteen door the detective constable was on his way to the counter in search of a bowl of suet pudding.
Jago sat at his desk, alone in the office. The door was shut, and it was quiet. Despite the self-control he’d exercised over the pudding, he felt sluggish and had to fight off the drowsiness that threatened to enfold him. He focused his thoughts on the case. As so often in the past, he was finding that the more stones you turned over, the more unpleasantness you found lurking beneath them. What a nice place the world would be, he thought, if it didn’t have people in it.
By five o’clock in the afternoon Cradock had still not returned to the police station. Jago was beginning to wonder what had happened to him. They needed to find Cooper and talk to him, and if half of what Cradock had said about him was true, Jago would prefer not to go alone. But if Cradock didn’t get back soon, he’d have to.
He pulled four sheets of white foolscap separated by carbon paper from the typewriter and decided that was enough desk work for today. Time for a cup of tea, he thought. The idea was still forming in his mind when the air-raid siren cut it short, sounding the alert: raid imminent.
A familiar apprehension stirred within him. He could see it coming. That feeling in the stomach, the freezing sensation that had ambushed him so cripplingly in the last few days since the heavy raids had started. He replayed the film of those moments in his mind and heard his own voice speaking in his head, as if to a stranger. If you carry on like that you’ll soon be no use to anyone. You’ve got to fight it, if only for Cradock’s sake. You haven’t come through two years of slaughter just to curl up and die now. You need to get a grip on yourself.
The voice stopped and he looked round, half expecting to find himself standing there. “Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. His automatic reaction on hearing the siren was still to take cover, but he decided to defy instinct. This time he would go outside and watch the raid instead. He liked what Roosevelt had said at his first inauguration: we have nothing to fear but fear itself. It was time to tell his fear where to get off.
He went down to the front entrance and stepped outside to look.
On West Ham Lane, people were scurrying for the nearest shelter. Most faces suggested the alert was nothing more than an irritating interruption to their afternoon arrangements. Others had a look of matter-of-fact resignation. But in some he could see panic, eyes that betrayed their fear. These are the ones who aren’t used to it yet, he thought. Or perhaps they’re the ones who’ve already seen loved ones killed, bodies blown apart. Or the ones like me, who’ve seen so much of it that they’ll never get used to it.
He took up a position just outside the police station, ready to duck back behind the protective sandbags if the bombs got too close. High in the clear sky he could see the raiders approaching. There must have been about a hundred of them: dark specks against blue, growing larger. Puffs of smoke from exploding anti-aircraft shells began to appear all around them. The firing was much more intense than it had been during Saturday’s raids: someone must have decided to bring more guns in. Cradock might find the extra noise comforting, he thought, but it didn’t seem to be having much effect on the advancing bombers.
He heard explosions coming from the south, and guessed that once again the enemy crews would be releasing a torrent of high explosives on the docks. The planes droned on, but then to his relief they began to pull away towards the east. It seemed they were not intent on bombing the north of the borough today. But he pictured in his mind the people living in Canning Town and Silvertown, cheek by jowl with the docks, in those flimsy, vermin-infested slums. The relief that he felt at being spared another assault from the air was sobered by his knowledge of what they would be suffering instead of him. He silently gave thanks to fate that he did not have to live there.
A familiar figure came into view a little way down the street, trying to maintain his dignity as he half-walked, half-ran along the pavement. It was Cradock.
“Sorry I’m late, sir; I got held up. There was a problem with the buses, so I had to walk all the way. Then the sirens started when I was nearly here and I wasn’t sure whether to take shelter or not. I know uniform are supposed to stay at their posts and only take cover if there’s an actual raid, but it’s not quite the same for a DC who’s been out on a visit, is it? I mean, I haven’t got a post to stay at, have I? Anyway, I decided I’d just carry on.”
Jago found himself smiling at the sound of Cradock’s chatter. It brought him out of hi
mself and restored a sense of everyday normality. He realized something else: the feelings that had gripped him when the air-raid siren sounded had gone.
“Good man,” he said. “When you’ve got your breath back we’ll go and see Cooper. But we’d better sit tight until we get the all-clear first. In the meantime, I think we should see if we can rustle up a cup of tea.”
What he had been thinking in Cradock’s absence would remain his secret, but Jago decided the cup of tea would have an additional, private significance. He felt he had a small victory to celebrate.
It was after six o’clock when the all-clear sounded, and Jago and Cradock set off for Cooper’s house, this time in the car. Jago drove.
He was apprehensive. Cooper might prove to be quite a handful.
“Watch out in case he tries anything on,” he said when they arrived. “Let’s go.”
They walked up to the front door, side by side. Cradock knocked on it.
They had only a short wait before the door opened, but instead of Cooper they saw a woman. She looked thirtyish, thought Jago, or perhaps a bit younger with a hard life behind her. She had fair hair and was wearing a golden brown cotton dress. Her clean and tidy fingernails intimated that she lived in some material comfort, but there was little in her eyes to suggest confidence.
“Mrs Cooper?” said Cradock.
“Yes,” she replied.
“I’m Detective Constable Cradock and this is Detective Inspector Jago, West Ham police. We’d like to speak to your husband.”
“He’s not here.”
“Can you tell us where he is?”
“He’s at his place, his yard, Whitwell Road.”
Not a great talker, thought Jago.
“What does he use it for?” he said.
“No idea,” said Mrs Cooper. “All I know is he uses it for his business. I never go down there. He’s the only one who’s got keys to it. Probably better for me not to know anyway.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. It’s his business, not mine.”
She was still standing on the doorstep. It was clear that she had no intention of inviting them in. Jago wondered what she was hiding, what went on within these walls. Whatever it was, everything about her suggested that it wasn’t a model of domestic harmony.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” said Cradock.
“No, he didn’t say.”
“How long has he been out?”
“He went out before that raid started. I tried phoning him there but the line’s out: the whole system seems to have broken down since these air raids started. If you want to speak to him you’ll have to go and find him. Can I go now?”
Cradock glanced at Jago, who nodded.
“Yes,” said Cradock. “I know where it is. That’ll be all.”
Before he could say anything else she had stepped back into the hallway and closed the door.
By the time they got to Whitwell Road it was dark. For once, the night was silent too: Jago hoped perhaps the Germans had done their work for the day and would not return before daylight. Cradock pointed out where Cooper had his store, and Jago parked the car by the kerb.
They both kept a wary eye out as they approached the building. Cradock knocked on the front door, but, as before, no one came. They walked the few paces to the double doors that gave access to the yard. Cradock pushed one of them gently, and to his surprise it creaked open.
They stepped into the yard. Everything was as it had been on Cradock’s previous visit, except that now a dark shape loomed to his right. He shone his handlamp onto it carefully. A dozen or more wooden crates and tea chests were stacked in an untidy pile along one side of the yard.
“That’s new, sir,” he murmured to Jago. “A delivery of some kind?”
“We can look at that later,” said Jago. “We need to find Cooper first. And watch your step: if he’s the unpleasant character you say he is, we don’t want to tangle with him in the dark.”
A few small windows in the main building overlooked the yard. No lights were visible, and on the ground floor the men could see that the blackout curtains had not been drawn.
“That might explain why no one came to the door, sir,” whispered Cradock, pointing to the windows. “It looks like there’s no one in.” There was something about this gloomy enclosed space that made him instinctively keep his voice down.
He swung his lamp slowly round to take in the rest of the yard before them. Its weak beam cast a small pool of light onto a single-storey brick structure with a low slate roof. It was built against the far perimeter wall and ran the full width of the yard. There was a door at the right-hand end.
They crossed the yard to the door, and Jago knocked. Again, no answer. He turned the doorknob slowly, to make no noise, and leaned his shoulder gently against it. No movement: it was locked.
He put a finger to his lips to signal quiet and motioned to Cradock to check the two windows farther down the front wall of the building with his lamp.
Cradock noticed that here too the blackout curtains on the inside of the windows had not been closed. He shone his lamp through the first window. No sign of anything untoward. He shone it through the second one. The same. He angled the beam down and played it across the floor, then gasped. This time he forgot to whisper.
“Come over here, sir. What do you make of this?”
Jago strode over and took the lamp from him, adjusting it to give him a view inside the room. He saw storage racks, a cabinet, and what looked like the end of a table. And on the floor, protruding from behind the cabinet, a pair of booted feet.
CHAPTER 22
“If I don’t get out of this house I shall scream,” said Muriel. She pulled a delicate white handkerchief from the handbag positioned beside her on the sofa and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s been like. I’ve been a prisoner here for twenty-one years. That’s half my life.”
“But now you’re free. You can do whatever you want.”
She looked at him, her face a picture of anguish.
“That’s what I keep telling myself, but I can’t. It’s just words. Inside I know I’m still in prison. Nothing’s changed. Even though I’ve been told I can go, even though I’ve been released, I’ve got so used to the place I can’t bear to walk out of the door. I’m scared, Arthur. I don’t know what to do.”
Arthur Villiers felt an unaccustomed anxiety. Muriel’s tears were unsettling, and he wasn’t sure how best he should respond. On his own territory he was confident. He had commanded men, led them into battle, even into death. He had completed a successful career as a solicitor. But for most of his adult life his dealings face to face with women had been confined to the formality of his office, where he was protected by the authority of his desk and the power of the language of law. In informal settings women made him feel uneasy – even Muriel. During the last war he had had to write many letters to women – to the wives, mothers, and fiancées of dead soldiers – but those women were far away and out of sight. Here with Muriel he was in a frightening no man’s land of emotion, with no bearings to go by.
He knelt before the sofa, took both her hands in his and scanned her face for clues as to what he should say.
“You won’t do anything irresponsible, will you?”
“Irresponsible?” He could hear the bitterness in her laugh. “I’ve been responsible since I was an eleven-year-old Girl Guide. I’ve only done one irresponsible thing in my life, and that was marrying Charles. You know, I sometimes think I should have gone on the stage – if they gave out Oscars for most dutiful wife I’d have been nominated years ago.” She took her hands out of his. “I’ve wasted my life, you know.”
“But what about Edward? You’ve brought up a fine young son.”
She laughed again and cast a glance towards the ceiling.
“Yes, I’ve done my duty by Edward too. I’ve been a responsible mother. But I don’t know him as a mother should know her son. The
re are too many secrets in this family, Arthur. Edward has secrets and he thinks I don’t know. I have secrets and I play a game with him, and I’m scared that he might see the mask fall. I’m due another Oscar, for dutiful mother.”
“It’s not your fault; you’re not to blame. You and Edward are both the victims in this: it’s all my brother’s doing. But he’s not here any more; he can’t control you now. Your life is your own: you’re free to be yourself.” He looked into her eyes. “If only I could make you see.”
“If only,” said Muriel. “There are enough ‘if onlys’ in my life already. It’s too late, Arthur. I’m not sure that I know who I am any more. I dreamed of being free for all those years, but now I don’t even know what it means.”
She paused.
“The police have said they think Charles was murdered.”
“Murdered? I thought you said they were talking about suicide,” said Arthur.
“They raised the possibility on Sunday, and I said the idea was absurd, but now they seem to have made up their minds. I’m frightened, Arthur. They’re very suspicious about everything, and I don’t know what they might dig up. I just want them to go away and leave you and me and Edward alone.”
“But you’ve nothing to fear. There’s nothing they could find that would compromise you in any way.”
Muriel looked at him with fearful eyes.
“But they might think that I – no, I can’t bear to think about it. Oh, Arthur, take me away from here. You’re the only one who can help me, the only one I can talk to.”
He moved to sit beside her on the sofa.
“Are you mad?” he said. “What could be more incriminating than that? If you disappear now they’ll think you did it, and if I disappear too they’ll think we were in it together. Besides, where would you go? We’re living on an island ringed with barbed wire in every direction, and you can’t go a mile down the road without your identity card. Stay here, and let me protect you.”
