by Mike Hollow
“Where’s that?”
“At the Savoy.”
“Is that normal?”
“Oh, yes. There are so many of us staying there, you see. That hotel’s like home from home for the American press. It’ll be someone from the Ministry of Information telling all the foreign journalists how the war’s going – from your government’s point of view, of course.”
“Of course. I hope they tell you something you don’t already know.”
Jago was about to ask her more about the briefing, but stopped.
“Excuse me, but there’s someone over there that I know. I need to have a quick word with them.”
Before she could answer, he was away, dodging round the traffic as he crossed to the opposite side of the road. Dorothy looked to the point where he was heading and saw a woman in her forties, wearing a brown coat, walking slowly along the pavement. A young man in dark working clothes and cap was sauntering alongside her and appeared to be with her. Dorothy waited, uncertain whether she should follow him if it was to be a private conversation.
Jago strode up to the couple, who stopped when they saw him.
“Mrs Carson,” he said, “I didn’t expect to bump into you. How are you doing now?”
“Inspector Jago, how nice to see you. Not so bad, thank you. You remember my son Robert?”
Jago noticed that the young man was making no show of acknowledging him, but rather stood with his hands in his pockets and an expression on his face that suggested defiance.
“Yes, I do,” said Jago, looking him in the eye. “In fact there’s one or two things I’d like to ask you, young man.”
“Please yourself.”
“When I last saw you I was investigating the death of Mr Charles Villiers, and I asked you if you knew him.”
“So?”
“You said you’d never heard of him.”
Robert said nothing.
“But since then I’ve discovered that you appeared at the magistrates’ court in January and Mr Villiers was on the bench. He found you guilty of assault and fined you five pounds. So how is it you’ve never heard of him?”
“I must have forgotten, mustn’t I? It must have slipped my mind.”
“And I also understand you lost your job as a result. Did that slip your mind too?”
Robert shifted awkwardly from one foot to another, his head down. Then he raised his chin and met Jago’s gaze.
“All right, I’ll be straight with you. I did know who you were talking about and I was in court, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got anything to do with what happened to him last week.”
“If that’s so, why did you lie to me about knowing him?”
“You could call it a matter of principle.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve got certain political convictions that don’t go down well with the people who run this country. You know as well as I do that there’s a political struggle going on here and all over the world, and it will only end when we have a proper communist society. In the meantime, I’m on one side and you’re on the other. You’ve probably got a file on me down at your police station already. You and the rest of the establishment are what’s keeping the working class oppressed, so I make it a rule never to tell your sort anything. If you want to know something, you can find it out for yourselves. I’m not going to collaborate with the ruling class. One day things’ll change in this country, and then we’ll have real justice, but until then I’m having none of it.”
“No one is above the law,” said Jago. “A man has been murdered, and whatever your politics, I’ll not have you obstructing my enquiries.”
Robert softened his stare a little and lowered his voice.
“I’m not a murderer. I don’t know who killed that man, but I can tell you this. You should read The Communist Manifesto. Karl Marx said the fall of the bourgeoisie and the victory of the proletariat are both inevitable. If you want to know who the bourgeoisie are, it’s people like that Villiers: they don’t come any more bourgeois than him. It’s a law of history that his kind will be swept away, exterminated. It wasn’t me who killed him. It was the inevitable historical process of the class struggle.”
Mrs Carson stepped forward, putting herself almost between them.
“You mustn’t mind how he carries on, Inspector. He’s always been one for ideas and long words. Can’t think where he gets it from. He doesn’t mean any harm, though.”
Robert turned away in disgust, then leaned against the brickwork between two shop fronts, watching them as his mother continued talking.
“He’s always been a good boy, you know. And that trouble he had at work, that was just his temper. He’s always had a bit of a temper on him. But he’s a good boy… a good boy.”
She seemed to run out of steam, gave a sigh, and looked helplessly at Jago.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mrs Carson,” he said. “You look rather tired. You haven’t gone back to work too soon, have you?”
“I can’t afford to be off work for too long, especially the way things are at the press.”
“The way what things are?”
“Don’t you know? I’ve heard that Mrs Villiers is selling up, getting rid of the whole business. If that happens, I’ll be out of a job.”
CHAPTER 33
Jago remembered that he had left Dorothy behind in his rush to intercept Irene and Robert Carson. He twisted round and saw her still standing, waiting, on the other side of the street. He bade a hurried goodbye to Mrs Carson and dashed back across the road.
“I’m terribly sorry to leave you there,” he said. “Those two people are connected to the case I’m investigating, and I couldn’t let the opportunity slip.”
“That’s fine,” said Dorothy. “I was just enjoying watching the world go by. Shall we go for that little drive now?”
“Yes, but would you mind if we took a slight detour first? That woman I was talking to told me something that came as a bit of a surprise, and I need to follow it up. If we fetch the car it won’t take long, then we can go and find something interesting for you to see. Maybe All Saints’, that old parish church I was telling you about.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“OK, let’s go, then.”
They walked briskly back to where Jago had left the car. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the front passenger door so that Dorothy could get in.
“When you’re in, could you do me a small favour and reach across and open the driver’s door?”
Dorothy obliged, and he got in behind the wheel.
“Is your lock broken?” she said.
“No, the driver’s door doesn’t have a lock.”
“That’s a little unusual, isn’t it?”
“Just a quirk. The manufacturers decided to save a bit of money by using the doors from another model, but they wanted to hang them the other way round, so the driver’s door ended up on the passenger side. Hence that’s where the lock is.”
“British joke?”
“No, British engineering.”
“How quaint. You would have been better off with my old car, the first one I ever owned. It was a Stutz Bearcat, 1912 model. It had no doors at all. Problem solved.”
“That’s America for you: the land of solutions.”
“Mind you, it had no roof either. But they breed us tough over there.”
“Tough, but understanding and patient too?”
She smiled at him.
“Of course. Drive on, Inspector.”
Only a few minutes later they pulled up outside the Villiers family home in Forest Gate.
“I’ll have to ask you to stay outside in the car,” said Jago. “I’m going to be interviewing the woman who lives here about something connected with her husband’s murder, so it wouldn’t do to have a journalist with me – even a sympathetic American lady journalist.”
“Understanding and patient, that’s me,” said Dorothy. “I’ll sit here and s
tart thinking out my story about the king rallying the spirits of his loyal subjects. Just don’t be too long, that’s all.”
Jago hauled himself out of the car and knocked on Muriel Villiers’ front door. He heard footsteps approaching, then the click of the catch, and the door opened. Before him stood Edward Villiers.
“Good afternoon, Mr Villiers. May I come in?”
“Of course,” said Edward.
Jago entered the familiar hallway.
“I was hoping to see your mother. Is she in?”
“No, I’m afraid she isn’t,” said Edward.
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that not only do I not know when she’ll be back, I don’t know whether she’ll be back.”
“What do you mean? Has something happened?”
“Well, if I were appearing in a B movie, the phrase I would probably use is that she appears to have done a bunk.”
“What, run away? How do you know?”
“I can’t be certain, of course, but I got home about an hour ago – I’d been out in London all day – and noticed there was an unaccustomed mess in various parts of the house. It wasn’t as though we’d been burgled, but certain things weren’t in the right place. I had been expecting to find my mother in, as she normally is on a Saturday afternoon, but when I called out there was no answer. I went upstairs and looked into her bedroom, and noticed an empty suitcase on the bed. It was one of a matching pair my parents had, and when I checked for the other one, it was missing. The wardrobe door was open, and there was an empty hanger lying on the floor.”
“Let me have a look.”
Jago followed Edward up the stairs and into the main bedroom at the front of the house. The scene was as Edward had described it. He scratched the back of his head as he took in the details.
“It certainly suggests a sudden departure.”
“Yes,” said Edward. “I mean it all looks rather like a set for a play – all the signs you’d expect to see in such a situation.”
“She hadn’t mentioned any plans to go away? To visit anyone?”
“No, and I’m sure she would have told me if she were.”
“Had she said or done anything recently to suggest she might want to leave?”
“No. She has been rather tense recently, on edge, but this is a complete surprise to me.”
“It’s been suggested to me that your mother was planning to sell the business. Is that true?”
“Sell the business? There’s been no formal announcement, but I do believe she’s been considering disposing of it, yes.”
“Let’s go downstairs,” said Jago.
Back in the hallway, he tried to discern any sign of concern in Edward’s face, but could find none.
“Do you have any reason to be worried about your mother’s safety?”
“No, I don’t think so. There’s nothing that I’m aware of.”
“If she has left, who would she go to?”
“My mother doesn’t have friends, Inspector. She didn’t have an easy life with my father, as you know, and friends were not something he encouraged. There’s only one person I think she was close to, and that’s my uncle, Major Villiers.”
Jago glanced across the hallway and saw a telephone on a small table.
“Do you have a telephone number for your uncle?”
“Yes,” said Edward. He opened the address book lying on the table and handed it to him.
Jago dialled the operator and asked for the number. He stared at the wall, tapping his foot on the floor while he waited. Eventually the operator told him the line was engaged. He thanked her and put the phone down, then turned back to Edward.
“Right,” he said. “Thank you for your assistance. I shall go now.”
He opened the front door and strode out towards the car.
Edward stood in the doorway and watched him go, then closed the door and walked slowly back into the living room. He mixed himself a pink gin and smiled.
CHAPTER 34
When Jago reached the car, he found Dorothy still sitting in the front seat, writing in a notebook with a silver-coloured pen. She put both into her handbag as he got in beside her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s someone else I need to see urgently.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
He started the car and pulled away sharply, jolting Dorothy back in her seat.
“My, you are in a hurry,” she said. “Does this mean you’ve decided it’s time to show me how fast this thing can go?”
“No, but we may need to go a little faster than usual.”
“What’s the speed limit around here?”
“There’s no limit once we get out of the built-up area, but here in the town there is: thirty miles an hour, and twenty at night now that we have the blackout.”
“Are you allowed to break it?”
“On police business, yes, I am.”
“How exciting. Where are we going?”
“A little town called Brentwood. It’s in Essex, the same as here, but further out into the country, about fifteen miles away. Are you sure you don’t mind coming with me? It’s not exactly what we planned.”
“I’d like to come along for the ride. I’ve never been to Brentwood, so it’s a chance to see another part of the country.”
“OK, and afterwards I’ll drive you back to the Savoy. I don’t want you to miss your press briefing.”
He drove a short distance west, heading back towards Stratford, then turned right into Leytonstone Road. The road that stretched ahead of them was long and straight, and lined with small shops and terraced houses. It was almost half past four, but there were still plenty of people out shopping. A couple of times Jago had to brake sharply when pedestrians darted across the road in front of him.
“This isn’t very fast,” said Dorothy.
“It’s always a bit busy here on a Saturday afternoon, but we’re going to head north towards the A12, the Eastern Avenue. It’s one of our new arterial roads – only opened about fifteen years ago, although it mainly follows the old Roman road from London to Colchester.”
“Not so new, then, really: more like getting round to improving things after nineteen hundred years?”
“I suppose so. The wheels of government turn slowly here sometimes.”
“But yours turn a bit faster, yes?”
“Once we get onto the A12 they will.”
Jago forced his way through the slow Leytonstone traffic, and eventually they joined the smooth and spacious new road. It seemed almost deserted after the crowded High Road, and he pushed up the speed as rapidly as the car would bear. Dorothy looked across at the speedometer in the middle of the dashboard: the needle was nudging seventy miles an hour. The combined effect of the roaring engine and the flapping fabric roof was already making conversation difficult.
“Sorry about the noise,” Jago shouted.
Dorothy replied at similar volume, undaunted.
“So what’s happening in Brentwood?”
“It’s to do with the case I’m working on. I told you it was a murder, didn’t I?”
“Yes. How’s it going?”
“One step forwards, two steps back. The victim was a local man, but now I’ve just heard that his wife’s disappeared too. The only place her son thought she might be was at her brother-in-law’s in Brentwood, and when I phoned just now the number was engaged. That means someone’s in, and I’m hoping I might catch her there, otherwise I’ve no idea where to look.”
“OK, no more questions till we get there.”
Jago gripped the wheel tightly to keep the car under control as they hurtled eastwards through the Essex suburbs. Soon the housing began to thin out and they broke into open countryside.
“Are those guns?” said Dorothy, looking out to her left. Jago glanced over her shoulder through the small side-screen w
indow. The road was flanked by farmland, and in the distance there was a patch of higher ground. On top of it he could make out a clutch of eight silhouettes like unsharpened pencils pointing up at the sky.
“That’ll be the Chadwell Heath anti-aircraft battery,” he said. “Part of the London defences. They’re supposed to stop the Luftwaffe getting through to where I live. Not a total success so far, I’d say.”
“Why’s that?”
“Looking for a very small target in a very big sky, I suppose. What young Cradock would probably call trying to shoot a needle in a haystack. In the last war we reckoned the average was thirty thousand shells to one hit, so we can only hope they’re more efficient than that now.”
“Is it worth the effort?”
“They don’t seem to hit many planes, but people say if the guns are firing it forces the bombers to stay higher, so they can’t drop their bombs so accurately. Not that that’s much consolation if one lands on you, of course.”
The car rattled on, and the farmland gave way to the urban landscape of Romford. Jago was worried. What if Mrs Villiers wasn’t there? Or what if she’d been there when he phoned but had already gone? People couldn’t move around as easily as they used to these days, but even so, if these two birds had flown it would be a job and a half to catch them.
He was relieved to see the houses come to an end again, with open fields and woods on both sides of the road. They came to a junction.
“This is Gallows Corner,” he said.
“Named for the obvious reason?” said Dorothy.
“Yes, indeed: this is where we used to hang the murderers.”
“And if you find one in Brentwood?”
“Then it’ll be the noose, the same as ever. The only difference is that it won’t be here on the corner; the public will have to be satisfied with reading about it in the newspapers.”
“Ah, the newspapers again. Where would we be without them?”
Jago parked the car outside the familiar house and strode up the path to the front door. He checked his watch: it was a quarter past five. His mind was running through the possible explanations that Mrs Villiers might produce for her sudden departure. He was braced for a confrontation with the major. An indistinguishable shape appeared through the obscured glass, and then the door opened.
