by Mike Hollow
“Not much hope for any of us, then, is there?”
“I’m not sure. There has to be hope, otherwise why would we keep on fighting this war? All I’m saying is if we want something better to come out the other end of it, we’ve got to be realistic too. At least young Robert has a sense of justice. If he can keep his feet on the ground, maybe he can put it to better use.”
“I suppose so,” said Cradock. He could think of nothing else to say. It was a feeling he was getting used to: in discussions with Jago he always seemed to run out of arguments. Perhaps I should start reading the newspapers more, or even books, he thought. If I can ever find the time.
“So, I think we’ve tied up all the loose ends now,” said Jago. “We should get back to work. I’ll go and pay.” He rose from his chair and took a ten shilling note from his pocket.
“Before we go, sir, there’s one other person you haven’t mentioned.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s someone else you’ve been dealing with during this case, sir: that American lady. Miss Appleton. Is she a loose end you’ve tied up too?”
Jago laughed.
“Don’t be impertinent, Detective Constable. As far as I’m concerned, she is definitely still a loose end. I shall be questioning her further this evening.”
They walked briskly up West Ham Lane towards the police station. The weather was getting a little chilly, and it was raining. Jago turned up his coat collar and pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes.
“I hope it stays like this,” he said.
“Why’s that, sir?” said Cradock. “I prefer it dry and sunny.”
“Because I think if it’s raining the Germans might not be able to see anything and it might persuade them to stay at home for a change, that’s why.”
“They might not want to come back after the pasting we gave them last night. We shot down a hundred and seventy-five of their planes.”
“Who told you that?”
“No one. It was all over the front page of this morning’s paper – I saw it in the newsagent’s on my way in.”
“How do you know it’s true?”
Even as the words came to his lips, Cradock sensed he was on thin ice.
“Well, it’s in the paper. And it must be what the government says.”
“So therefore it’s true,” said Jago. “Have you ever thought the only difference between you and Robert Carson could be that the propaganda you believe comes from different sources?”
“You think the number’s false?”
“I’m saying I’m not sure, and that’s not just because I’m not in a position to count them for myself; it’s because I prefer not to take everything I’m told at face value. They’re certainly not going to underestimate the number, are they?”
“I still reckon we shot down more of theirs than they got of ours,” said Cradock.
“That sounds a more plausible position,” said Jago. “I agree with you.”
They entered the station to find Soper in conversation with Tompkins. The DDI turned round and extended a hand to Jago.
“I’ve just been hearing about the Villiers and Cooper cases. Well done, John.” He glanced over Jago’s shoulder. “And you too, Cradock.”
He hesitated as if unsure what to say next, then with a nod he turned away and strode off.
“Well,” said Tompkins, “that didn’t take too long, did it? I expect you’re relieved you didn’t have to stand here for ten minutes having your detective skills praised to the rafters. That sort of thing can get a bit embarrassing, can’t it?”
“To labour and not to ask for any reward, save that of knowing that we do thy will, that’s us,” said Jago. “That’s what they taught me at school. You know we only do this job for pleasure, Frank.”
“Some of us love it so much we even come out of retirement to go the extra mile when we could be digging our allotment instead. Not like the younger generation.” He peered at Cradock over the top of his glasses.
“I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that,” said Cradock indignantly.
“Don’t worry, lad,” said Tompkins. “I’m only having you on. I’m sure you love the job just as much as I do.”
“Right,” said Jago. “If we’re all so keen, I suggest we get on with our work.”
CHAPTER 44
Jago was taking a chance. His blue pinstripe suit had survived its previous outing, but another evening on the streets of London at the mercy of the Luftwaffe could easily spell its doom. In matters of suits he believed in paying for quality. He’d once been surprised to see Soper coming out of the Fifty Shilling Tailors on the corner of Angel Lane – not something anyone would ever catch him doing. But if quality had to be paid for, quality had to last. With four suits in his wardrobe, three for work and the other for best, he was keen to avoid losing one. He hoped he would not end the evening throwing himself onto a carpet of broken glass to dodge a bomb blast.
Before leaving the house he had ironed his white shirt twice and chosen a tie in blue and grey stripes which he thought tasteful and hoped would pass muster. They would surely throw him out of the Savoy if he wore anything that didn’t. Standing alone in the front hall of the hotel, he wondered whether he looked like a policeman. He glanced down to check that his shoes were clean and then straightened his back: not quite standing to attention but definitely not at ease.
He chided himself inwardly for being intimidated by the place. He had every right to be there: he was the guest of a resident. As he waited, a succession of patrician figures passed through – regular patrons of the establishment, presumably, and clearly at home amidst its splendours. Where on the scale of social acceptability would they place him, in comparison with Saturday evening’s communist intruders? He couldn’t help feeling some of them might not make much of a distinction. Judging by his wartime experience of the Army’s officer class, he suspected they would be likely to lump him in together with everyone else in the country who hadn’t been to the same school as them.
Dorothy came into view – a composed figure descending the wide staircase and walking towards him across the hall. Unlike himself, she was not wearing the same outfit as last time: she looked elegantly understated in a grey, long-sleeved silk dress with collar and belt, and a white fur wrap round her shoulders. He had not seen her dressed like this before, but then these didn’t look like working clothes. He also realized, in a moment of awkward self-consciousness, that he was admiring her hair. He could not have named the style, but it was something about the way it framed her face that he liked.
He cleared his throat and hoped he had not been staring. He raised a hand in greeting as Dorothy approached.
“Hi,” she said. “You made it. How nice to see you.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” he said. “And no riots tonight, I see.”
She laughed.
“Yes, so far so good. We should be able to have a quiet evening, raids permitting, but let’s not waste any time, just in case they decide to pay us a visit. Shall we go have something to eat? The Savoy Grill is highly recommended. It’s just through that door.”
They walked side by side towards the entrance to the Grill on the far side of the hall.
“I feel a bit awkward,” said Jago. “This is twice in a week you’ve treated me to a meal here, and all I’ve offered in return is lunch in an East End pie shop. It doesn’t seem very gentlemanly, expecting you to rough it like that.”
“But you forget,” said Dorothy. “You were helping me to gain valuable colour for my writing by introducing me to local culture. And when I entertain you here, it’s all in the line of business and I can claim it on what some of my less scrupulous colleagues call the swindle sheet. So there’s nothing to feel awkward about.”
“I see,” said Jago. He paused when they reached the doorway, then spoke again.
“I feel rather underdressed, not wearing a dinner suit. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just that I don’t own one: there’s n
ot much need for one where I live. I don’t want to show you up.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger of that,” said Dorothy. “You know, I think these air raids are changing things. Even in this last week I’ve noticed not so many men are wearing dinner coats or tails here in the evenings. A lot of them have switched to business suits. Maybe at last they think being comfortable is more important than sticking to the old formalities. Whatever the reason, don’t you worry: you’ll look just as good as anyone else here.”
They entered the Grill and were shown to a table for two. It was immaculately presented, with a heavy white cloth, an array of silver cutlery, and white linen napkins folded into crowns. They both ordered Scottish salmon bonne femme, accompanied by a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
“How’s your investigation going?” said Dorothy.
“Very well. All over bar the shouting, I’d say.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I have a man sitting in the cells at West Ham police station who’s confessed to two murders. He’ll be appearing in the magistrates’ court tomorrow, and I expect he’ll be committed for trial.”
“So justice will be done?”
“I think so. But it was a tragic case in a way. The man had been terribly wronged and wanted justice, but the trouble was he didn’t know the whole truth, so the result was an equal injustice, if not worse.”
The wine waiter arrived and poured a little of the white wine into Jago’s glass, waiting for his approval. Jago imagined the man could probably tell just by looking that what he knew about wine could be written on the back of a postage stamp, but he complied with the ritual and nodded his assent. The waiter poured them each a glass. As a second man headed across the room towards them with their food, Dorothy resumed the conversation.
“You’re saying we can’t have perfect justice without perfect truth?”
“No, I’m not saying that. If I could achieve perfect anything in my job, believe me I would, but it’s not like that. The way I’d put it is we can’t have real justice without complete truth. The man in my case killed two men because of what he saw as injustices they’d done, on the basis of what he knew. He had no right to take the law into his own hands, but leaving that to one side, it would seem that if he’d had possession of the complete truth he would only have killed one. The problem is, how do we ever know if we’ve got the complete truth? It’s impossible.”
“So let’s compromise: the more truth we have, the more justice?”
“That’s more like it. As I see it, the whole world seems to be run on half-truths and downright lies these days, and that’s probably why we don’t see much justice.”
“We’re on the same side, then. You’re getting justice for those people who were murdered, because you went for the truth first.”
“In that case,” said Jago, raising his glass, “I propose a toast: to the truth, and may we both find it.”
Dorothy echoed the toast, and Jago replenished their glasses.
“That’s enough philosophy for one evening,” said Dorothy. “Maybe we should be thinking about doing this salmon justice.”
They began to eat. As Jago savoured the fish melting in his mouth, he wondered again what his companion must have thought of the pie and mash.
“I expect your boss is pleased that you’ve got to the bottom of it all?” said Dorothy.
“I suppose he is,” said Jago, forcing himself back to the subject of work. “He hasn’t said much about it, but on the other hand he hasn’t complained about anything either, so that’s a good sign. He and I go back a long way together, and we’ve never really seen eye to eye on much. To be honest, if I did the job to please him, I’d be disappointed. But I don’t: I do it for myself, and if I think I’ve done a good job, that’s enough for me.”
“You’re pleased, then?”
“I’m always pleased to finish a case. I don’t like leaving things unresolved.”
Jago heard his own words echo in his head as though someone else had said them, and he felt agitated. They reminded him of the question that he had brought with him and that had been troubling his mind all evening. The unresolved question. He knew he would have to ask it, but not yet. For now he would keep the conversation on the same track while he thought of how to bring it up.
“How’s your own work been going?” he said.
“It’s been good. And on Saturday, of course, I didn’t have to go looking for the story: it came to me, which was very convenient. An eyewitness account of an interesting event, and I didn’t even have to leave the hotel. I hope that young man that I recognized didn’t get into trouble, though. You got my message?”
“Yes, I got your message, and thanks for letting me know. I went to see him and had a quiet word. I hope that’ll help him keep out of trouble in the future.”
“Good. I was concerned about him, and about his mother too, after seeing them out together. These ideologies get such a grip on people. I saw it on both sides in Spain, the communists and the fascists, and when I see those rallies the Nazis have, it makes me shudder.”
“That’s why we have to fight this war,” said Jago. “You can’t do a deal with people like that.”
He knew this was the point in their conversation where he should ask his question, but before he could speak the waiter arrived to take their dessert orders. They studied the menu and made their choices: a fruit salad for Dorothy and a more substantial apple crumble and ice cream for himself.
As soon as the waiter had gone, Jago took a deep breath. He knew he could not put it off any longer.
“Dorothy,” he said, “there’s something I need to ask you.”
“Fire away.”
“It’s about the war, the last war.”
“OK. What is it?”
“It’s difficult for me to talk about. I’m not quite sure what to say, but it’s really important to me, so please bear with me.”
“You can say whatever you like; I won’t mind.”
“Thank you. The thing is, it’s to do with your sister. When you showed me that photograph of her on Saturday I was shocked. You could probably tell.”
“Well, yes. Like I said, you looked like you’d seen a ghost.”
“I had, in a way. I hadn’t seen that face since 1918, and I’d never imagined I would. I couldn’t believe I was looking at her again after all these years.”
“You said you knew my sister. Did you meet her?”
“Yes: it was when I was wounded, towards the end of 1917. They got me to a casualty clearing station, which probably saved my life, and then I was evacuated to a British base hospital near the French coast. They called it a hospital, but actually it was a huge camp of huts and tents, about a mile long and half a mile wide, with twelve thousand beds. Anyway, there were some American nurses there, and one of them was your sister.”
“That sounds right: I know she was in a place like that. She went over there in 1917, just after America declared war on Germany. A team of volunteer doctors and nurses from Boston went to France to work in a base hospital on the coast, near Le Touquet. I remember before they went they set up a hospital on Boston Common to show everyone what it would look like, and my parents took me to see it. Then just a few days later, I think, we saw Eleanor off on the train from South Station with the rest of the unit. All the local papers had pictures of them going: it was quite a big thing in the city.”
“It was a big thing for me too. I arrived just before Christmas, and it was like waking up in a different world. Those nurses really made an effort to make it special for us – we had presents, Christmas dinner with plum pudding, and even Christmas trees in the wards.”
“That sounds like Eleanor – she always wanted to do more, do better.”
“I’m not sure how reliable my memory is of arriving there,” said Jago, hesitating, “but – well, it’s always seemed to me that your sister was the first person I saw when I woke on my first morning.”
He paused. Dorothy could t
ell that he was struggling to control his voice. To his relief, the waiter arrived with their desserts. Jago took the opportunity to compose himself, then continued.
“Just two days before that I’d been under continuous shelling and machine-gun fire at the front, and now I woke up in a place that was clean and light and peaceful. I don’t believe in heaven, but that’s where I thought I was. I saw your sister standing by my bed looking down at me, and I thought I was seeing an angel.”
Dorothy smiled.
“I can vouch for the fact that she wasn’t an angel,” she said. “But when I was a little girl she was everything I wanted to be. Seeing my big sister go off to Europe on an adventure like that had a big influence on me. Just look at what I’m doing today. It sounds like she made quite an impression on you. Did you ever tell her?”
“It’s one of the greatest regrets of my life that I didn’t. I knew too many stories of men in hospitals falling in love with their nurses and I didn’t want to make a fool of myself. Even more, I didn’t want to embarrass her. In the end it was taken out of my hands: before I could find a way to say what I felt, I was moved out. They got you back into active service as quickly as they could in those days. I never saw her again.”
“Didn’t you write?”
“I suppose I could have written to her at the hospital, but I thought if I couldn’t say it face to face, how could I do it in a letter? I was afraid she wouldn’t understand. You see, I knew what I felt, but I had no idea whether she held any affection for me or whether she was simply being kind. Then when the war ended I assumed she’d gone back to America, so there was no way of contacting her. I just got on with life.”
“But you carried a torch for her, right?”
