by Mike Hollow
Jago was not sure what to make of this comment. He did not trust the elegantly attired young man who stood before him.
“I have another question for you, Mr Villiers.”
Edward made a show of giving him his full attention.
“Yes?”
“You once said that you thought your father might have been engaged in what you called ‘informal enterprise’, and you told my colleague Detective Constable Cradock that you thought he might have been involved in some shady deals.”
“And?”
“We have reason to believe you were right.”
“How intriguing. So the old man wasn’t as straight as a die after all.”
“We believe he may have been involved in some unlawful activities with a man called Frederick Cooper. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t believe I do.”
“Think carefully, Mr Villiers. This is a very serious matter.”
“I’m sure it is, Inspector, but I’m really sure I don’t know anyone of that name. Who is this Cooper?”
“The property that your father visited on the night he was killed belonged to Frederick Cooper. As far as we know, Cooper would have been the last person to see your father alive.”
“All very interesting, but what does this have to do with me?”
“We also have evidence that Cooper was taking money from people to ensure they could evade conscription into the armed forces, and that he took money from your father. This was about a month ago, and when we first met, you told me you’d registered for military service a month or so ago but had not been called up.”
Edward’s expression had changed. He was now beginning to look wary. He lit a second cigarette as Jago continued.
“We know that people were paying Cooper to make sure their call-up papers were lost in the system. Did your father pay him to do that for you?”
Edward thought for a few moments, then stubbed the cigarette out firmly in an ashtray.
“All right, Inspector, I’ll tell you. You have to believe me: it wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t trying to wriggle out of anything. I was happy to serve. If nothing else, it would be a way out of this dead-end job and dead-end family. I actually wanted to get into uniform and be out from under my father’s thumb – prove that I could be his equal in some way. To me, joining the forces was my ticket to freedom. He was the one who was against it. He was worried sick – memories of the last war, I imagine. He wanted to keep me out of it. He wouldn’t say why, and now I’ll never know, but I can only imagine it was all just another part of his controlling my life. He’d made up his mind, and that was the end of it.”
“So he arranged for your papers to be lost?”
“No. There you’ve got it wrong. I don’t know anything about this man Cooper’s business with call-up papers, but my father wouldn’t have had to do that anyway. I told you I’d registered, but the reason why I wasn’t called up was because I was found medically unfit. That’s what my father paid for. He got me a green form: a medical discharge certificate. I don’t know whether it was forged or stolen, but once I had that there was no question of my being called up.”
This was not what Jago had expected to hear. He was unsure whether Edward was at last telling the truth, or whether this was just another story. If it was, what was it intended to hide?
“It’s as simple as that, Inspector,” said Edward. “I can only assume this Cooper man has a tame doctor eating out of his hand, and that my father obtained the discharge certificate through him, but I don’t know any of the details. You’ll have to ask friend Cooper that.”
Jago studied Edward’s face carefully as he spoke.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Villiers. Frederick Cooper is unfortunately dead.”
Edward showed no sign of surprise.
“I see. I imagine that complicates your investigation. Or perhaps if this man was the rogue you say he was, you’re not sorry to see him go.”
“I take the murder of any man very seriously, Mr Villiers.”
“Murder?” said Edward. “You didn’t say he was murdered.” He looked nervously at Jago and backed away slowly. A new thought seemed to dawn on him.
“Wait a minute. Are you trying to suggest that this was something to do with me?”
“Well,” said Jago, “was it?”
Edward’s face showed alarm.
“No,” he said, in a tone of angry disbelief. “It’s preposterous. I didn’t even know him. What reason would I have to murder him?”
He waited for a response, but Jago was silent. Edward’s voice became louder, more urgent.
“Look, Inspector, you have to believe me. I didn’t kill him! And I didn’t kill my father either!”
He sat down heavily on the sofa and put his head in his hands. It was the first time Jago had heard the young man’s voice betray emotion.
CHAPTER 38
Jago drove to the station. The streets were still quiet, but in the distance he could see scores of planes in the gaps between the clouds, and the smoke of fires curling up into the sky. It looked like a heavy raid somewhere over South London. He pitied the poor blighters who were on the receiving end of the pounding, but it was far enough away for him not to have to abandon his own journey and seek shelter. He parked his car in the yard behind the station and walked in through the front entrance.
He was welcomed by the solid, reassuring presence of Tompkins.
“Messages for you, sir. That lady friend of yours called.”
Jago declined to correct him again: knowing Tompkins, this might be his idea of a joke.
“What did she say?”
“I wrote it down here.” Tompkins picked up a notepad. “She said there was a communist invasion of the Savoy Hotel last night. No one was hurt, but she was there and saw what happened. A mob stormed the place. She said to tell you that she recognized one of them. It was the young man you met in the street in Stratford yesterday. She said you’d know who she meant. Does this mean the Bolsheviks are coming? Hope it makes more sense to you than it does to me.”
Jago considered the possible significance of the message.
“Yes, thank you, Frank. It makes some sense to me.”
He turned to go, but Tompkins called him back.
“Messages, sir. There’s another one. Mr Soper wants to see you.”
“What? On a Sunday morning? What’s he doing here?”
“Blowed if I know,” said Tompkins. “He doesn’t confide in me much. Can’t think why.”
“Morning, sir,” said Jago. He glanced at the clock on the wall near Soper’s desk. “My goodness, is that the time already? Good afternoon, sir. I didn’t expect to see you here today.”
“I didn’t expect to be here myself. The fact is, John, I want to know what’s happening with this Villiers murder case. I haven’t heard from you for days. I came in looking for you yesterday, but I gather you were off gallivanting round Essex with that American woman. And now there’s been this other murder, this Cooper fellow. What’s going on?”
Jago was more interested in catching up with Cradock. He had the sense that things were coming to a head, and there was no time to lose. He tried to make his report as concise as possible.
“We’ve had a lot of developments, sir. I’ve just heard an interesting piece of news as I arrived here today. There’s a family who are all connected with the case in one way or another. The mother worked for Villiers and had some trouble with him, and it was her boy who reported the body. It turns out her other son is some kind of communist agitator – he was involved in an incident in the West End last night. We’ve also discovered he was up before the police court earlier this year, and Villiers was the presiding magistrate. I’ve spoken to this lad, and he strikes me as a bit of a hothead. Seems to have his head stuffed full of communist ideology – death to the bourgeoisie, and that kind of thing. But having said that, I can’t see why anyone would kill Villiers just for being a middle-class businessman and a JP
.”
“What else have you got?”
“Well, there’s this boy’s mother, Mrs Carson. A bit unstable, I’d say. Villiers tried it on with her one evening, apparently, and there might be more that she’s not saying. Grounds for revenge, perhaps, but I don’t think she’s the killing sort. Then there’s a fellow called Johnson who worked for Villiers. He’s been spinning us a line, and I don’t trust him, but he must have made a good living from Villiers, so why bite the hand that fed him?”
“And what about the other murder – Cooper?”
“There was a connection between him and Villiers. They were both involved in the fake identity card business, and Johnson was mixed up in it too, but whether that’s why they were both killed I don’t know. It’s small fry, really. Not the kind of crime that involves killing people.”
“Crime nevertheless.”
“Yes, of course, and Cooper seems to have had a number of irons in the fire as far as crime’s concerned.”
“And what about Villiers’ wife? You had some suspicions, I recall.”
“She’s a bit of a dark horse, that one. The first time I met her I thought butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but now it seems there’s what you might call something of an indiscretion going on between her and her late husband’s brother.”
“Indiscretion? What do you mean?”
“I’m not certain yet, but there are indications that she may have run off with him.”
“Absconded? Are you looking for them?”
“Yes. I’ve had Cradock alert the neighbouring constabularies. It may mean nothing, but we won’t know for sure until we’ve spoken to her. On the face of it, she’s not behaving like the perfect widow, but it all seems more like a comic opera than a conspiracy to murder.”
“And what of the son?”
“He’s a bit of a puzzle too. His mother said he’s got secrets, and I’m not certain I’ve found out what they all are. Something’s going on with him, and it’s not straightforward. He tries to cover it, but I get the impression there’s some turmoil going on just beneath the surface. I’ve just been with him this morning and he got very emotional. There was definitely bad blood between him and his father, and there’s more to him than meets the eye. But does that make him a murderer? I’m not convinced.”
“Right,” said Soper, “that’s very helpful. And what’s next?”
“Next is a cup of tea.”
Jago got his drink and took it with him in search of Cradock. He found him at work in the CID office.
“You got a statement from Johnson?”
“Yes, sir, it’s all in order. How did you get on after you left the press?”
“Not very well. I went to see Gray, but he wasn’t there. I spoke to his landlady, but she didn’t know where he was. It was unusual, apparently, because she said he doesn’t go out much. She didn’t have a lot to say about him, except that she reckons he’s an oddball and a bit of a drinker.”
“He doesn’t sound like a pillar of the community, then.”
“No. And for a man who doesn’t get out much, he’s a remarkably elusive fellow. I’m getting more and more interested in meeting him.”
“Has anything else come to light?”
“Yes. Robert Carson was involved in some kind of communist demonstration at the Savoy last night.”
“What do you make of that?”
“I’m not sure: I only found out when I got here, and since then I’ve been in with the DDI. I think I need to go out for a little walk by myself and think about things. I won’t be long.”
Jago got a sandwich from the canteen and took it with him. He left the station and crossed the road, heading for West Ham Park. It seemed more than a week since he and Cradock had been dodging the shrapnel from the two anti-aircraft guns that stood guard in the middle of the park. Looking back, that Saturday evening now seemed to mark a dividing line: the moment the war had changed. At the strategic level, the newspapers were saying it was the day when the East End of London had become the front line. For most of us who live here, though, Jago reflected, it was the day when we stopped sleeping. He was beginning to feel the effects of the endless sirens and bombing raids, the constantly interrupted sleep. What wouldn’t I give for a few quiet nights, he thought.
He strolled through the park, enjoying the serenity of the trees and the lush grass at his feet. It was good to be out in the open air, he thought. But not a good place to be if there was an attack from the air. The only protection available in the park was the trench shelter dug the previous year, and that wasn’t an attractive proposition. The ones in Hyde Park might be up to scratch, but West Ham was all marshland and springs. He’d heard of one trench shelter in the borough that got so wet, a fire engine had to come and pump out the water twice a night, and another where small boys sailed their toy boats. He kept the shelter in sight, but hoped he wouldn’t need to use it.
He found an empty bench to sit on, where he could think while he ate. The park was quieter than he had expected it would be on a Sunday afternoon, but it was only about two o’clock. Most families would be at home eating their lunch together rather than here. It would probably get busier later in the afternoon, if the weather held. The roads skirting the park were quiet too. There were never many people on the streets on a Sunday, of course, as the shops were closed, and only occasionally could he hear any traffic passing. The main sound was that of the birds singing, just the same as ever. They didn’t know there was a war on. The openness and colours of the park made a pleasant contrast to the office, but it was also a lonely place. How nice it must be to sit down for a Sunday roast with your children round the table, he thought, instead of sitting here on your own with only a cheese sandwich for company.
He reminded himself that he had a lot to be thankful for. A roof over his head and a job he enjoyed, for instance. He also had the privilege of eating in peace and quiet, with no needs to attend to except his own. There was something to be said for the bachelor life, when all was said and done. It kept things simple. So many men of his acquaintance seemed to regret getting tangled up with women. Or maybe it was the one woman they were tangled up with that they regretted. Who could tell? What you saw of a relationship from the outside wasn’t always the whole truth. It was odd that so many people got married professing their undying love, then seemed to spend the rest of their lives fighting.
He saw a squirrel hop across the ground to the foot of a tree and stop to forage in the grass. It snapped into a sitting position, resting on its back legs with tail up and eyes unblinking, and nibbled something from its front paws. Then just as suddenly it was away, bounding up the tree trunk with the food clenched in its teeth. What a simple, uncomplicated existence, thought Jago. That was the trouble with human life: you had to live with your choices. He was content on his own, but perhaps his life would have been better if he’d married. Too late to know now. But then, as they said, what you don’t know, you don’t miss.
He was glad he’d brought his coat. The sky was clear overhead, but the air was a little chilly. To the south, the docks were covered in cloud, and he wondered if it was going to head north and bring rain. He finished his sandwich and brushed the crumbs off his lap, and was about to turn his thoughts to the previous day’s developments when his ears were assailed by the air-raid siren.
To Jago, this harsh intrusion felt like a conspiracy to prevent him enjoying a few moments of peace, and he was a little surprised to find a sense of defiance rising within him. The warning might turn out to be a false alarm, but if not he would have time to run to the shelter. He decided he would stay put.
It was not long before his ears picked up the sound of aeroplane engines. It reminded him of the buzzing of a swarm of bees, but lower-pitched and slower: a persistent, menacing growl. The planes themselves were not visible, but the sound was coming from the deep banks of cloud that hung over the docks to the south. From somewhere in the same direction came the sound of anti-aircraft fire, muffled by distan
ce.
The first planes emerged from the cloud. There seemed no end to them: more than he had seen together at any time since the first big raid a week ago. There were five groups of bombers, each of about twenty planes, and around them a mass of protecting German fighters – more than he could count. He could see RAF Spitfires and Hurricanes everywhere too, although there seemed to be twice as many German fighters.
It was like the scene he had watched from the pavement outside the police station on Wednesday, albeit on a larger scale. But there was something different. As the planes droned steadily closer, he began to realize what it was. He felt calm. His mind and his body were under control. Four days ago it was only by steeling his will that he had managed to step outside the sandbagged safety of the police station. Today he had simply done it. In that one small decision he had recaptured some vital long-lost ground, and the fear that had paralysed him when the first bombs fell a week ago was gone.
It reminded him of France. Not the shock of first coming under merciless artillery fire, but more that strange indifference to shelling that he had so slowly and painfully acquired through the following two years of active service. It was all more than two decades ago, yet it was still there inside him, in some mysterious place that he could not identify. It was perplexing, but trying to force his mind to unravel its own workings seemed pointless.
What had wounded him more deeply, he wondered: the incessant hammering of the guns at the front or the shocking silence that marked the war’s end? He had no answer to his own question, but he felt a surge of energy and relief as it gradually became clear that he could cope. He would never forget, but he would not be for ever haunted by fear.
The noise of the engines was growing louder as the bombers drew closer, and only now did it strike him that he had not heard the sound of exploding bombs. Why was that? The answer was clear in the sky: the thick cloud over the docks must have prevented them dropping their load. He looked up, and saw the sky above his head was cloudless – they must be saving their bombs for West Ham instead. As if in confirmation, the anti-aircraft guns in East Ham opened fire with a thunderous roar. Puffs of black smoke smeared the blue sky as their shells burst around the planes.
