by Mike Hollow
“And you got the job, presumably?”
“Yes, I did. I’ll make no bones about it: my thinking was that if I got on the inside I could find some way of ruining him or exposing him for what he was. Then the war started and my son was called up and sent off to France, just like I’d been. You already know what happened to my George. I can’t describe what I went through. Have you got a son?”
“No,” said Jago.
“Then you can’t know what it’s like. But it brought back everything else too – everything I’d seen in France, the friends I’d lost there. I knew people had made money out of what we went through back then, and now I could see Villiers doing the same thing, making money out of a war. I’d just had enough. I didn’t know what I could do about it, but when I was out with him that night when the big air raids started it suddenly struck me: in all this chaos I’ve got my chance.”
Johnson paused and took more water. He seemed reluctant to go on.
“You were alone with him, yes?” said Jago.
“Yes. I confronted him, told him he’d murdered my mate. At first he said he didn’t know what I was talking about. That just made me even more angry – the fact that he didn’t even remember it. When I reminded him of what he’d done to Tom, he just sneered at me in that superior voice of his. Said it wasn’t murder, it was due process, it was the law, and anyway he couldn’t be expected to remember one coward from so long ago. Just brushed me off like a piece of dirt. It was as if he thought because he’d been an officer I’d just do whatever he said. But I couldn’t get that sneer out of my mind. I can still hear it – still see that stuck-up face of his.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I got into a rage and hit him. He knocked his head against the door frame in the van and it stunned him, so I hit him again. I wanted to kill him, and in that moment I decided I’d make it look like suicide. I hadn’t planned it that way and I daresay I made a pig’s ear of it, but I knew he was the kind of man who thought suicide was a coward’s way out. I know it’s not like that, and anyway, if anyone was a coward it was him. All bullies are cowards. I wanted it to look like he’d killed himself, to show he was a coward. Maybe that doesn’t make sense to you, but like I said, I was in a rage. I didn’t care what I did. The first time I had to bayonet a man in the war I threw up, but the second time I didn’t. It’s what they’d trained us to do.”
“So you cut his wrists to make it look like suicide? What did you use?”
“That old printer’s knife of his. The one you showed me when you came to the office. I knew he always carried it in his inside jacket pocket, so I reckoned it would be there, and it was. I got it out while he was still stunned and cut both his wrists. For me it was a kind of justice: I wanted him to know he was dying and not be able to do anything about it. Just like Tom. Then he started coming round. At first he just sat there and looked at the blood, as if he couldn’t believe it, then he started shouting and screaming for help. I think maybe I panicked then, and just stabbed him in the chest to shut him up. Then he went quiet, and I knew he was dead.”
As Johnson came to the end of his account his words were lost in a succession of quiet sobs.
“I just wanted to show he wasn’t the man he pretended to be,” he whispered. “It was justice, and he deserved it.”
Jago stood directly in front of Johnson and looked him in the eye.
“I am arresting you for the murder of Charles Villiers and –”
Johnson interrupted him, his voice sounding strained.
“Yes, I know, I killed them both. But it was worth it. They killed the two best men I ever knew. There’s no justice for the likes of them in this world – it’s all just about power and money, and it was power and money that killed my son and my friend. Even if I hang for it, at least I got justice for my George and poor old Tom Cordwell.”
Jago caught his breath. Before he could speak, Cradock blurted out what the detective inspector was thinking.
“But that’s –”
They exchanged a shocked look, then Jago spoke again to Johnson.
“Your friend Tom Cordwell: was he married?”
“Yes. She was called Lily. Why?”
“And were there children?”
“Just one, a little boy. He was just a baby.”
“And his name?”
“They called him Fred.”
Jago did not think his heart could go out to a man who was a self-confessed double murderer, but it did. How could he tell him? There was no alternative to the cold truth. He spoke as gently as he could.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Cooper’s real name was Fred Cordwell.”
Johnson’s face slowly changed. His mouth opened as if to form a word, but he made no sound. His breath came in anguished snatches and his eyes widened into an unfocused, uncomprehending stare. Jago said nothing. For a moment, the faces of young soldiers came before him. Boys barely shaving, new to the front line, seeing their best friend blown apart by a grenade, shot clean through the head by a sniper. He refocused his eyes on Johnson. He knew that face well. It was the face of horror – the unspeakable horror of death. There was no justice in war, and sometimes no justice in peace.
CHAPTER 43
“Morning, Mr Jago,” said Rita. “I see you’ve got your nice young assistant with you again.”
“Ah, yes, I don’t think I introduced you last time we were here. This is Detective Constable Cradock.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr Cradock,” said Rita. “Are you a married man?”
Cradock looked a little alarmed. Seeing him lost for an answer, Jago stepped in for him.
“Now, now, Rita, don’t pounce on the poor man like that. It’s a bit early in the morning for matchmaking. He hasn’t even had his breakfast yet.”
“Just being friendly, Mr Jago. I take an interest in the younger generation. You might be a confirmed bachelor, but it wouldn’t do if everyone was, would it? A young man like this should be thinking about settling down.”
“Leave the boy alone – you’re embarrassing him. And less of the confirmed bachelor, if you please. I may be a bachelor, but who says I’m confirmed?”
“Well, if that’s a hint, I’ll take it.”
“You can take an order for breakfast, that’s what you can do,” said Jago.
“All right, then,” Rita sighed. “What will you be having?” She cast a maternal eye on Cradock. “You need feeding up, you do.”
Cradock tried to put on a polite smile, but it only made him look more nervous.
“Don’t worry. She means well,” said Jago. “Have what you like. It’s my treat today.”
“In that case, I’ll have sausage, eggs and bacon,” said Cradock, “and some fried bread, and a cup of tea, thank you.”
“Right you are,” said Rita. “Just what you need on a Monday morning. Same for you, Mr Jago?”
“No, I think I’ll just have eggs and bacon today, and a cup of tea, of course.”
“That’s not enough for a grown man like you. Are you on a diet?”
“No, I’m going out to dinner this evening and I don’t want to spoil my appetite.”
“I see. Anyone I know?”
“No comment,” said Jago.
Rita pulled a face and marched off in the direction of the kitchen. Jago watched her go and thought her remarkably cheery, considering the state of the café. It wasn’t the same place it had been just a few days ago. Since his last visit on Tuesday a bomb had landed across the road and blown out all the windows. The front of the café was boarded up now, with just a couple of small panes of glass set into the panels to let in some light. Like many other shopkeepers, she had chalked a “Business as usual” sign on the outside, but she hadn’t tried for the jocular style favoured by some and of course beloved by the photographers and newsreels. Plain and no nonsense, that was the way Rita was, and he admired her for it.
The bomb had damaged a few shops and houses on the other side of the
street, but the cinema on the corner had come off worst. One thing, however, had cheered him as he arrived at the café that morning. The blast had taken down the wall opposite, and with it the despised red poster that had annoyed him for so long. There was no trace of it. Well done, Goering, he thought: at last you’ve done us a favour.
“It’s kind of you to treat me to breakfast, guv’nor,” said Cradock. “Thanks very much.”
“Well, I thought we should celebrate,” said Jago. “We’ve caught our killer. You did well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cradock felt a glow of pleasure. Hearing those three words at the end of a job from a man as hard to please as Jago was akin to being presented with a gold watch.
Jago’s mind was already elsewhere, thinking of something else that was cause for celebration. After yesterday afternoon’s heavy attack the Luftwaffe seemed to have given up for the rest of the day, and as a result he had slept soundly all night. He was also looking forward to a more refined occasion this evening, but he would not be discussing that with Cradock.
Rita arrived with their breakfast and placed it on the table.
“Bon appertee,” she said, and departed.
Jago laughed.
“That’s a bit posh for a place like this, isn’t it?” said Cradock.
“She’s just making fun of me,” said Jago. “She asked me how to say that, and I taught her.”
“French, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Edward Villiers kept coming out with foreign stuff when we were talking to him the other day. Was that French too?”
“Yes, it was.”
“A bit hoity-toity, wasn’t he, talking like that? I think people like him do it to make you feel inferior, left out. Probably got it from his dad. I didn’t understand a word of it myself. Did you, sir?”
“I did, since you ask.”
“You must have gone to a better school than me, then.”
“I doubt it. I learned it from my mother. She was French.”
“Really, sir? Well I never. I once heard old Frank Tompkins saying there was more to you than meets the eye, but I never would have thought you had a foreign mum. Fancy that.”
“Try to contain your amazement: it’s not that unusual. My father simply happened to marry a French woman, and she therefore happened to be my mother.”
“Yes, sir, of course. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“I know you didn’t. Now, get on with your breakfast. You don’t want it to get cold.”
The two men ate in silence until their plates were almost cleared. Cradock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and resumed the conversation.
“So, a good result, sir, yes? Everything sorted out, and Johnson and Gray both on their way to court. What do you reckon it’ll be for Johnson? The drop?”
“That’s a crude term, Peter. You’re still talking about a man’s life, even if he is a murderer. As for whether he’ll hang, you never can tell which way a jury will go: we’ve all seen some rum verdicts. If you’re asking me, though, I’d say his prospects aren’t rosy.”
“And what about Gray?”
“I can’t see him wriggling out of that business with the alibi for Johnson, and of course he’ll be handed over to the Army for deserting. Mind you, I’m not so sure they’ll want him back in the state he’s in, and with a criminal conviction to boot.”
“So he may still get what he wanted when he went AWOL in the first place?”
“If you mean staying out of the Army, yes. And talking of going AWOL, is there any word about Mrs Villiers and the dashing major?”
“Yes, sir. Essex phoned yesterday while we were out at Mrs Cooper’s house. It seems they were found staying at a village inn in Theydon Bois.”
“I see. Difficult to keep a low profile in a place as small as that.”
“Yes, and it looks like you were right about the petrol, sir. That’s probably about as far as they could get. Apparently the innkeeper thought it was a bit odd – they turned up together looking like a couple and their identity cards said Major Villiers and Mrs Villiers, but the addresses were different. On top of that, he said the man asked for two rooms, but when he said they only had a double available, the woman said they’d take it. Anyway, he didn’t do anything about it until yesterday evening, when the local bobby dropped in. The innkeeper mentioned them – probably thought they might be German spies or something – and the bobby recognized the names from our message. But a double room: can you believe it? What a scandal if anyone finds out. I wonder what Edward’ll make of it.”
“Well, we’re certainly not going to tell him. He can find out for himself, or they can tell him if they want to. But who’s to say it’s a scandal anyway? I keep telling you not to jump to conclusions. If that was the only room available and they were running out of petrol they may have had no alternative. It’s quite possible there was nothing untoward going on at all. In any case, it’s none of our business. More to the point, what did our esteemed colleagues in the Essex Constabulary do with the pair of them?”
“They didn’t put them in the cells overnight, sir, if that’s what you were thinking. Which is probably just as well considering what we now know about the case. Just told them we’d want to speak to them today and not to go anywhere. Mind you, they’d have had to steal horses to get away, and I don’t think they’re the kind really.”
“Right, we’ll speak to them, but I think they can sort out their own lives from now on.”
“What about Edward Villiers? We can’t just ignore that business with the medical form, even if it was his dad who got it for him. Using a certificate like that with intent to deceive, that’ll be an offence, won’t it? National Service Act 1939?”
“Correct.”
“So we’ll charge him?”
“I expect so. But I wonder what the bench will make of it. If he’s telling the truth when he says he wanted to serve, they might wonder where he’ll be of most use: in prison or in the forces. Have you ever heard of Lord Penzance?”
“No. Some bigwig in Cornwall?”
“No. He was a judge about sixty years ago; he died before you were born. He said the law is only the handmaid of justice, or ought to be. You can think about what that means later, but I’ll be interested to see what the magistrate decides. In a case like this, the law might say convict him, but justice might say let him go and serve his country.”
“I see what you mean, sir. He’d probably be more use to the Army than Bob Gray. At least our Edward seems to be sober most of the time.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. Do we still need to talk to Edgar Simpson about that business of Cooper blackmailing him about his personal life?”
“Yes, we’ll do that – find out what really happened. But again, let’s not make assumptions about his private life until we know what it was. The fact that he was being blackmailed doesn’t necessarily mean he was up to anything illegal.”
Cradock reflected for a moment on what Simpson might have been doing to make himself susceptible to blackmail without breaking any laws, but decided Jago would probably think it inappropriate to speculate. He was almost at the end of his list of questions.
“So that just leaves the Carson family, then, sir.”
“Yes. I went to see them last night. Mrs Carson seems in better spirits now. She says she wants to start again, try to make a new life for herself, although I can’t see that being easy. Young Billy’s got a new job, though – something to do with munitions at a chemical place in Carpenters Road – so maybe he’ll start bringing in more money.”
“And what about that Robert? You said he’d been in a demonstration at the Savoy.”
“Yes, protesting about air-raid shelters, apparently. I’ve had a chat with him. I thought I ought to explain what sedition is, and I told him to watch his step. He’s an excitable lad.”
“Was that reported by a source of yours at the hotel, sir?”
“Never
you mind about my source. That’s confidential.”
“Of course, sir. Was he nicked?”
“No, I don’t think any of them were. From what I’ve heard it all ended quietly, no harm done. But I’ve told him not to get too carried away. The last thing his mum needs now is a son in trouble with the law.”
“Do you think he’ll manage to stay on the straight and narrow?”
“That remains to be seen, but I think his heart’s probably in the right place. It seems these goings-on at the Savoy were a protest – they were saying everyone ought to have access to decent air-raid shelters. When you’ve seen what’s been happening round here in the last few days I can’t say I disagree with them. Same goes for war profiteering: it’s a disgrace. I just happen to think the right way to deal with it is through the law, not by having a revolution and stringing people up. But he’s a young man, and they get led astray. You ever been led astray, Peter?”
“Not as far as I know, sir.”
“Well, steer clear of religion and politics, that’s my advice. Too many people seem to think they can make the world a paradise by killing people. Young Robert seems to have put his money on Joe Stalin, but I personally don’t buy it.”
“Old Joe seems to be very popular in Russia, though, doesn’t he?”
“Depends who you talk to, I suppose. He’s certainly got plenty of people in this country with a lot more education and brains than Robert Carson eating out of his hand. Maybe it’s wishful thinking: he says Russia’s a socialist paradise, and they want to believe it.”
“It could be true, though.”
“Yes, and what’s the first rule of detecting? Whatever anyone tells you, assume they’re lying. Sad, isn’t it? The trouble with our line of work is we see too much of what really goes on in life. What the bullies do to the weaklings, what husbands do to their wives, what vicious old men do to little girls. It’s our job to lift up the stones other people don’t want to look under. And once you’ve seen what’s underneath, you can’t believe the simplistic stuff that the likes of Hitler and Stalin and Mosley come out with. At least I can’t. I don’t think you can make heaven on earth when you’ve still got hell in your heart.”
