by Mike Hollow
“Just one, as far I could see,” said Cradock. “And that was someone else who’s got connections. Bob Gray. It looks as though he bought a card, and his real name’s Coates.”
“Very interesting. A few more stones for us to turn over. Well done.”
Jago sipped his beer thoughtfully.
“It’s all about books and covers, isn’t it?”
“Sir?”
“You know: never judge a book by its cover. All these people – the more we find out about them, the more unsavoury they turn out to be. You just never can tell. You meet a man who looks as meek as a lamb, then it turns out he’s a wife-beater, or worse. Why’s that?”
“Human nature, I suppose.”
“When I was a kid a man like that would just be someone who did bad things, but now you get these new psychiatrists saying it’s all his parents’ fault, it’s all about his relationship with his father. Any truth in that, do you think?”
“Wouldn’t know, sir. My dad died when I was three, so I don’t remember him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s a bit odd, missing someone you never really knew. But it wasn’t unusual in those days. Lots of my friends at school had lost their dads. Mine was at Gallipoli.”
“Another of Mr Churchill’s great ideas.”
“A bloodbath, more like it, from what I’ve heard. So I never really had a father. My mum was amazing, though, the way she coped. Brought me and my two sisters up on her own.”
“And you turned out all right, didn’t you? So why is it some men grow up to be wife-beaters, thieves, and murderers?”
“Can’t say I’ve ever thought about that. We’d soon be out of a job if they didn’t, though, wouldn’t we?”
“I suppose there’s that to be said for it, although on balance I think I’d be happier to be out of a job if it meant no child would ever be harmed again. But it’s in us, isn’t it? It’s in all of us.”
“What is?”
“The killer, the potential to kill. As likely as not there’ll be young German men your age flying over here tonight trying to drop bombs on people in their homes, and young British men flying the other way to do the same.”
Cradock was surprised. Jago seemed to be implying there was no distinction between the actions of the two warring sides.
“But we only bomb strategic targets, don’t we?”
“Don’t kid yourself. How accurate do you think those bombers are? I’ve heard people round here say they won’t use the public shelters because the roofs make a target for the Germans to aim at. But that can’t be right. Those Germans are thousands of feet up in the air just pulling some lever or something while we’re shooting at them.”
“They have bomb aimers, though, don’t they?”
“Look, they might be able to hit a target as big as Beckton gasworks, but they’re not going to be able to make sure the bombs land on a factory instead of on Mrs Bloggs who lives next door. I expect the truth is they’ve got bombs to drop and they don’t much care who they land on.”
“But we wouldn’t do that, would we?”
“I can’t imagine our bombers are any more accurate than theirs, and the sooner you get rid of your bombs, the sooner you can get home. But that’s not my point. What I’m saying is we can all turn into killers. Take me, for instance. I was just an eighteen-year-old boy who wanted to be a newspaper reporter, but the Army took me and taught me how to stick a bayonet into another man and kill him. If it wasn’t for the war he and I might have been friends and had a pint together, but now I was in khaki and he was in grey, and that meant I had to use a bayonet on him.”
“And did you? Did you ever have to?”
Jago was silent. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Yes,” he said.
Neither man spoke for a while. When Jago resumed the conversation, his voice was more gentle.
“You can thank your lucky stars you missed all that. And that you’re in a reserved occupation now, so you won’t get called up.”
“People say military service makes a man of you, though, don’t they?”
“They do, but it’s not as simple as that. I’ve seen it bring out the best in a man, and the worst. My sergeant risked his life to bring me back when I was wounded. He would have laid his life down to save me. There were lots of men like that – really looked after each other. But there were plenty of others who seemed to enjoy killing. They say we’re fighting to save civilization now, but I dread to think what it’ll be like when all this is over and we’ve got thousands of men coming home trained to kill and no jobs, like it was last time. I don’t think our job’s going to get any easier when peace comes.”
“So why do we always want to kill each other?”
“It’d be a wise man who knew the answer to that one. I certainly don’t. It just seems to be in us, as I said. It’s in Hitler, and it’s in the docker in Canning Town who murders his wife and kids. It’s just something about being human, I suppose. I hate it.”
“At least we can do something about it, though, can’t we? Put them behind bars, I mean. Send them to the gallows too, sometimes.”
Jago was struck by the simplicity of Cradock’s outlook on life. It seemed quaint, somehow. It reminded him of when he was young.
“Yes. I don’t know why you joined the police, but it’s why I did. I don’t mean I wanted to hang people. I mean I thought I could make things better in some way, help to put things right. I’d spent two years in France seeing what men are capable of doing when someone tells them they’re allowed to kill. I’d seen what happened to innocent civilians when they got in the way of that vicious war machine running out of control. When I came back I didn’t want to see anyone treated like that again. I wanted to be the person who could protect the weak from the strong, make sure there was peace on the streets, and see to it that thieves and murderers got their comeuppance.”
“Do you still feel like that?”
“Sometimes I think it’s all a waste of time, but most of the time yes, I do still feel like that. I don’t think Charles Villiers was a man I would have liked, and from the sound of him he probably wouldn’t have given me the time of day anyway. But whatever he may or may not have done in his life doesn’t give anyone the right to murder him. Only the law can take a man’s life, after due process. It makes me angry when someone thinks they have that right. Whoever it was who killed Villiers, I’m going to find out who he is, or who she is. After that, the law can take its course, but I’ll know I’ve done my bit. I’ll have taken one killer off the streets.”
Jago fell silent again. Not even fifteen years between them, and yet Cradock seemed like a boy. When I was in the trenches, he thought, Cradock would only have been five or six. I’m not quite old enough to be his father, but I might as well be, there’s such a gulf between his experience and mine. He remembered being back in England on leave. The busybody civilians whose imagination could not stretch to comprehend the agonies of the front. Wanting to shake them by the throat and make them understand, and yet finding there were no words to describe it. We all decided not to tell them, he thought; perhaps we should have. Now the old slaughter’s picked up where we left off. Cradock and his generation would learn for themselves, grow wise through their own agonies.
Jago sometimes wished he’d been able to marry and have a son, but now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was better never to have had one than to have one and lose him.
CHAPTER 28
“Morning, sir,” said Tompkins. “And how are we today?”
“Morning, Frank. Fair to middling.”
The station sergeant nodded sagely.
“And how’s that young lady of yours?”
“Young lady?”
“Yes, sir, that American lady.”
“She’s not my young lady. She’s a professional acquaintance.”
Tompkins gave another knowing nod.
“I se
e. Seems quite a confident young lady, if you know what I mean. Bit of a handful, I should think.”
“She’s American, that’s all. I think they breed them more confident over there. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Strong women, though, sir – they can be a bit difficult, can’t they? Reminds me of those suffragettes we used to have. Remember that Pankhurst woman?”
“Emmeline, or Christabel?”
“No, the other one: Sylvia. She was always down here. Very active in Canning Town, she was, just before the Great War.”
“I was still a schoolboy at the time, Frank.”
“Of course, I was forgetting. Bit of a communist, she was. Fell for the old Russian propaganda, if you ask me. But fair’s fair: she wasn’t all bad. Those suffragettes opened a place down there to help poor young mums and babies, and she’d be there, regular, handing out free milk and suchlike to the locals. That’s what my wife said, any rate. They needed it too. Some of those families were starving.”
“They didn’t turn you into a Bolshevik, did they?”
Tompkins drew himself up straight.
“I should blooming well think not, sir. I’m an Englishman.”
Jago laughed.
“Only kidding, Frank. I was thinking just the other day about some of the strong women we used to have around. Do you remember the way those old East End women used to fight?”
“I should say. Scrapped like cats, they did. I remember getting called out to a punch-up once, thirty years ago it must have been. These two old girls were knocking six bells out of each other, pulling each other’s hair out by the handful. We had to push one of them all the way to the doctor’s on the hand ambulance, and when we got there she wanted to go back for another go.”
“Yes, that’s something you don’t see now.”
“What, women having punch-ups?”
“No, the hand ambulance.”
“Yes, antiquated contraptions, they were. I think they were pensioned off about the same time I was. Ancient history, them and me both.”
“The good old days, eh, Frank?”
“Don’t you believe it. Life was hard then. And I thought once the war was over everything would be fine. What mugs we were.”
“Didn’t turn out as we’d hoped, did it?”
“Honestly, I never thought we’d be at war again so soon. Seems like we’re right back where we started. And I don’t know which is worse – being kicked out of France like we are now, or holding the line like we did then and slogging it out for another four years in the trenches. I’m getting too old, I think. Things don’t seem to make sense like they used to. I suppose the older you get, the more you remember that used to be different.”
“The world’s changed, Frank. We can’t stop it. Everything changes. We even have women voting now, don’t we? Or some of them, anyway. What a shock that was.”
Tompkins looked uncertain.
“You wouldn’t be taking the mickey, would you, sir?”
“Would I ever do that?” said Jago with a laugh.
“Of course not. Tell you what, though: this might surprise you, but I think those suffragettes were right. I didn’t back then, but I do now. Everyone should have a vote. I’ve heard people say half the men fighting in the British Army in the Great War didn’t have a vote. Now that can’t be right, can it? Old enough to die for your country but not old enough to vote? It’s not logical. Same goes for women, I say. Not die for your country, of course, but have a vote, the same as men.”
“So you’re a closet radical, then?”
“No, sir, it’s just common sense. I was glad when they got the vote – really I was. I was hoping it would bring a bit of common sense into politics. Mind you, judging by the last year or two, I reckon we’ve still got a long way to go before that happens. Maybe people like your lady friend are going to change things for the better.”
“I’ve already told you, she’s not my lady friend.”
“Yes, sir, so you did. And a charming young lady she is too.”
Jago found Cradock waiting in the office. The detective constable was seated at his desk, a half-finished mug of tea before him. He quickly folded away a newspaper and jumped to his feet when Jago entered.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, Peter. I trust you got home safely last night.”
“Yes, thank you, sir. It was quiet for a change. I reckon the Germans must have been having a night off, at least as far as West Ham’s concerned. I could hear some bombs going off somewhere up west, though. This morning I heard one had just missed St Paul’s. Anyway, the only incident I came across was an old man who’d fallen off his bike in the blackout and cut his face, but he wasn’t badly hurt. All quiet for you too, sir, after I’d gone?”
“Yes. I must say it was nice to have a good sleep for a change. First decent night’s sleep I’ve had for days.”
“So are we going to go and turn over some of those stones, sir?”
“Yes, time for a little digging. I thought we could start with the Hodgsons.”
Mr and Mrs Hodgson were both at home. It was Mrs Hodgson who came to the door.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said in a flat voice. “Come in.”
She led them through to the kitchen. Her husband was sitting in the far right-hand corner, in a spindle-back wooden armchair. His head was down, and only a slight movement of his eyes acknowledged their presence before he resumed staring into his lap.
“The police are here,” she said, then turned back to Jago and Cradock. “Haven’t you had enough? I’m not going to run away, you know – not while I’m on police bail. Surely you’ve got everything you need by now? There’s no need to keep harassing me.”
“Just a few simple questions, Mrs Hodgson,” said Jago, “then we’ll be on our way.”
“I should jolly well hope so. I’m very tired of this whole business.”
“My questions are actually for Mr Hodgson.”
“My husband is not well, Inspector. Just look at him: you can see he’s ill. He’s off work.”
“This won’t take long. You’re welcome to stay if you wish to.”
“In my own house? How kind of you.”
A woman of some spirit, thought Jago, albeit misdirected. More than could be said of her husband.
“Mr Hodgson,” he said.
Hodgson raised his head and gave him a nervous look, his hands tight on the arms of the chair.
“I’ve come to ask you some questions about your dealings with Mr Frederick Cooper.”
“Never heard of him,” said Hodgson.
“Come now, Mr Hodgson. It was Cooper who gave you those bruises, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“There’s no point in trying to keep up this pretence, Mr Hodgson. Your wife has already told us all about it.”
“What?” Hodgson threw an anxious glance at his wife and half rose from the chair, but she would not look at him. Instead she kept an icy gaze fixed on Jago.
“It’s true, Sidney,” she said. “I was under considerable duress from these brutes at the police station. I had to tell them.”
Hodgson collapsed back into the chair, slowly shaking his head. He moved a hand to try to conceal his moistening eyes.
“I want to know about the money you’ve been taking from Cooper. Tell me about those call-up papers.”
“I can’t,” said Hodgson. There was an undertone of fear in his voice.
“Cooper is dead, Mr Hodgson: he can’t harm you now. And as far as I know he had no accomplices in his criminal activities, so no one else is going to be coming after you.”
A tear trickled down Hodgson’s cheek.
“Pull yourself together, Sidney,” said his wife.
He took a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose, then tried to wipe his eyes discreetly before replacing it in his pocket.
“Very well, what do you want to know?”
�
��I just want you to tell me what you did with those papers.”
Hodgson tried to catch his wife’s eye again, but she looked away. He hesitated, then continued, his voice feeble and his head down.
“It was nothing complicated, and not particularly clever. Every so often Cooper would give me some names of men who were due to be called up. My job was to make sure they disappeared from the system. This might sound ridiculous, but the way the Ministry of Labour works, if your papers are mislaid you officially cease to exist, so you can’t be called up.”
“So you were the one who mislaid them.”
“Yes. All I had to do was find each man’s Form 442 and destroy it, then Cooper would pay me. A pound for each one – that’s what he gave me – although I’m sure he charged them twenty times that. It seemed an easy way to make some extra money at the time, but I didn’t know what kind of man he was. By the time I found out, there was no way back.”
“Can you tell me the names of any of the men whose papers you lost?”
“I can tell you them all. I kept a list.”
“That’s very thorough of you.”
“Maybe it’s just the result of working in the civil service for twenty-four years. You keep records of everything. But it was also because I wanted to be sure he paid me everything he said he would. I didn’t trust him.”
“Could you show us that list?”
Hodgson left the room and returned moments later with a piece of paper, which he handed over. Jago and Cradock examined it. Jago pointed to one of the names and spoke quietly to Cradock.
“Could be a coincidence, but interesting all the same, don’t you think?”
“What are you saying?” said Hodgson anxiously.
“Never you mind. I’ll take this with me,” said Jago. “You won’t be getting any more commissions from Mr Cooper.”
“Good riddance,” said Hodgson. “He was a vicious man, and there was no reasoning with him. Letting him get his claws into me was the biggest mistake of my life.”
“I understand he had his claws into your colleague Mr Simpson too.”
This time Hodgson’s eyes did not move in his wife’s direction but stayed fixed on Jago.
