by John Gardner
The air normally smelled strongly of soot, even deep under the ground. It was part of any memory of London: the soot smell and the roar and clanking of the Underground trains as they arrived or left the stations. Suzie could remember her fear of them as a child, shrinking back from the platform as the train came blustering in, or listening with awe to the echoed sound borne in on decreasing waves as it grumbled its way on through the endless tunnels.
At the block of service flats — Derbyshire Mansions — they found the apartment on the third floor. The place was Edwardian, purpose built, Suzie considered. Big apartments for business bachelors of the naughty nineties. Lots of mouldings. If these walls could talk, she thought. Nobody challenged them. ‘Could’ve jemmied our way in and nicked the silver, no problem,’ Shirley said. ‘These people think they’re safe from everything except a Nazi bomb. I bet some of them don’t even lock the door.’ She tried three-twenty. A Yale lock. ‘Bet I could loid that easily. But there’s probably a dead bolt as well.’
‘What’s that mean?’ Suzie asked.
‘Crikey, Skipper! You don’t know what a loid is? Stiff piece of celluloid. Flexible. You can slip it into a Yale lock. If the sneck’s not down, or if it hasn’t been double locked, the bolt just slides back. Easy as pie.’ Her fingers obviously itched.
They rang Emily Baccus’s doorbell three times with no result.
‘You want me to —?’
‘No.’
‘I think she could be away,’ the porter told them when they dug him out. ‘I haven’t seen her for almost a week. Don’t know where she is.’ He was a grizzled, nutbrown little man in his sixties who carried himself well, obviously a former NCO.
Suzie showed him her warrant card and he asked if it was something serious, obviously longing for her to tell him to break into the flat. ‘I told you, I haven’t seen her for a few days, maybe a week,’ he said, his grey nicotine-stained moustache quivering as though vibrating of its own accord. He wore medal ribbons on the green uniform jacket that appeared to be de rigueur as porter of Derbyshire Mansions. Suzie recognized the Mons Star because the Galloping Major wore the Mons Star among his medals on Armistice Day.
‘People go missing without warning in this bombing,’ the porter said darkly. ‘Take Mrs Evans from two-four-one. There one day and just not around the next. That was Mrs Evans all over. Nobody knows what happened to Mrs Evans. Two-four-one.’
Suzie took the porter’s name for future reference. It was Russ, Cyril Russ. In her head she christened him Cyril Nutkin.
She thought about letting Shirley have a go with a loid, but in the end, she left her card with a scribbled message asking Emily Baccus to telephone her at the Camford Hill station. They left and made their way up Marylebone High Street to a British restaurant where they had lunch. British restaurants were about the cheapest you could get and it was patriotic to use them.
‘We have meat today.’ the waitress said. It was amazing how quickly shortages had set in.
Shirley scanned the menu, realizing there was no real choice. It was either Hot Pot or Hot Pot.
‘We’ll have the Hot Pot.’ Suzie decided.
‘Good choice.’ Shirley grinned. ‘We going to have the Spotted Dick as well?’
‘I’ve spent most of my life avoiding Spotted Dick.’ Suzie scowled.
‘Oh, so have I.’ Shirley smirked with glee.
Then she told Shirley that her father used to say the French pronunciation of Hot Pot was Ho Po.
‘I thought that was the Chinese?’
‘No, Chinese is number sixty-eight.’
It didn’t take them long to realize that the Hot Pot had been given only a quick glimpse of the meat.
‘Should’ve had the fish.’ Shirley said.
Later, Suzie bemoaned her lack of training. ‘I’m doing it by instinct, Shirl. I’m amazed they’re allowing me to investigate this but I do need help. Please, let me know if I’m being stupid.’
‘Well, at least you now know what a loid is.’
After the Spotted Dick, she said, ‘I’m going to concentrate on Benton’s secret four. When we get back to Camford I’ll ring the antiques fellow ...’
‘Daniel Flint?’
‘He’s got a business in Kensington Church Street, so we should be able to see him early on. Then perhaps you’d get Gerald Vine’s address and Barry Forbes, right?’
‘Okay.’
‘And ring the Air Ministry. See where the Squadron Leader’s stationed. Perhaps I can fit them all in by Christmas Eve when I’m going to stay with my sister, Charlotte. Did I tell you about Charlotte?’
It was Thursday. Christmas Eve was the following Tuesday. It was going to be very tight.
‘I suppose I’d better ring Stratford nick,’ she mused, muttering under her breath. ‘The Snitterfield thing.’
Back in the CID office at Camford Hill, Suzie spoke to a DI Eagles in Stratford and he took almost an hour to get her genned-up about the Snitterfield murder. Then she got down to putting her notes in some sort of order and writing her report while Shirley started to telephone the people her sergeant wanted to see. Suzie had not done one page when she got the telephone message from Sanders of the River. ‘I want you in my office now,’ he said. ‘Pronto.’
‘Pronto, sir.’ she repeated.
*
‘I’ve been waiting since yesterday afternoon, Sergeant Mountford.’ Sanders had a bit of a high colour and she noticed that his right hand was clenched: the skin stretched: the knuckles white. She found it difficult to meet his eye.
Nobody really took Sanders of the River seriously; certainly she didn’t: until now, when it quickly became clear that he was put out.
‘I waited for you to come and see me last night. I know you got my message. Then I discovered you’d left the station without a word. And you didn’t come in today until this afternoon. Three o’clockish.’ All little sentences, yapped out at her, a fine spray of spittle forming. ‘I understand, of course,’ he said in case she thought he was sitting in judgement. ‘I gather you had to interview someone. Can’t be easy with Tony Harvey away.’
Sanders had always seemed inoffensive, lacking in so many graces, but now he seemed to be roused.
‘Responsibility. Sergeant —’ he made a shrugging motion — ‘responsibility comes with promotion. You’re only an acting WDS, but you still have the responsibility.’ He made the shrugging movement again and she realized that he had a new silver insignia on his shoulder. Sanders of the River had been made up to Chief Super. They’d been right. Sanders of the River was now the senior officer at Camford Hill.
‘Sir, I ...’
‘I hope you haven’t got a problem with authority, Mountford. I wanted to tell you that I’d had a long talk with the press liaison officer at the Yard. They suggest that you try to steer clear of reporters, and newspaper cameramen.’
‘You’ve been promoted, sir. Congratulations.’ She had learned the trick long ago when she was still at St Helen’s.
Sanders of the River blushed. ‘Thank you. Sarn’t Mountford. Thank you ...’ The pause was a shade long. ‘Thank you ... er ... Suzie. I was wondering ...’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Wondering if you’d care to have dinner with me sometime. I was going to ask you last night, but you ... Well.’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t have last night, sir. But, yes. Well, yes, I’d love to.’
‘I know a place near Richmond. The Silver Fox, perhaps you’ve heard of it.’
‘No.’
‘Ah, well it doesn’t matter. Perhaps ...?’
‘After Christmas, sir? I’d love it.’
It did wonders for her confidence, to be chatted up twice in one day. To be invited twice in one day.
‘Yes, that’ll probably be best.’ He smiled.
A nice smile, she thought. Lights up his eyes and makes him look terribly young.
‘Things’ll be easier all round after Christmas. DCI Harvey’ll be back on January 1st.’ He
smiled again and licked his lips.
‘Sanders’s asked me out,’ she muttered to Shirley back in the CID office.
‘Never!’
‘Wants to take me to a place near Richmond.’
‘Not The Silver Fox?’
‘Yes. Why? D’you know it?’
‘The Silver Fox’s noted for it.’
‘Noted for what?’
‘It’s where businessmen take their secretaries, Skip.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘The restaurant’s dead expensive and they do rooms — by the hour I’m told.’
‘By the hour?’ She’d never heard of such a thing. ‘By the hour? Never heard of such a thing. I don’t believe you. Why would they do ... Oh. Yes. Oh. I see. Yes.’
‘You want me to get you some of that parachute silk, Skip?’
‘Mmmm, yes. And some of those little mother-of-pearl buttons, yes.’
‘Lace?’ Shirley knew the signs. When a girl started to take courting seriously she first looked to her underwear.
‘Please, yes.’ She had already decided that Sanders would be the one. She wished it could have been Josh Dance, but with Sanders ... Well ...
Shirley had arranged for them to see Daniel Flint the following morning and Barry Forbes in the afternoon. ‘Gerald Vine’s rehearsing in London at the moment and he’s offered to see you tomorrow evening.’
‘Okay, fix that, and what about the Squadron Leader?’
‘He’s at Middle Wallop. 609 Squadron. Just up the road from Overchurch, isn’t it?’
‘Not far. I could go there — train to Andover — on Monday, then get a bus to Overchurch when I’ve seen the Squadron Leader. Can you arrange that now?’
‘You won’t need me.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Why not?’
‘Air Ministry says that no aircrew personnel from 609 have been off the station, except to one of the local pubs, in the past month.’
When she got back to St Martin’s Lane, Suzie rang Charlotte. ‘I’m coming on Monday. Got to see a Raff officer at Middle Wallop, so I’ll get the bus down to you after.’
Charlotte told her that she’d had their mother on to her again. ‘I had the feeling that she’s been trying to get you. One of us has got to tell her.’
Suzie knew what Charlotte meant was that she — Suzie — had to tell their mother. ‘Let’s compromise,’ she said.
Her mother was very disappointed. ‘I’d made up my mind that you’d both manage to come down. I thought how wonderful it would be, with the children and everything. I mean Ross has brought in a wonderful tree ...’
‘We’re going to come over on Boxing Day, Mum — if I can get away. It’ll be my treat, so keep your fingers crossed.’
‘We’ve got a turkey. Well, Ross got a turkey, so we’ll save it: have our Christmas on Boxing Day. Shall you stay the night?’
‘I doubt it, Mum. I’ll let you know, and don’t save your turkey till Boxing Day. Please, I really am terribly busy. It’s murder here.’ Then. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘What?’
‘A chief superintendent asked me out.’
‘Out? Where out?’
‘On a date out, Mum.’
‘A chief superintendent?’ Her mother made it sound like a rat catcher.
Then she rang Detective Chief Superintendent Livermore, and they talked in detail about the people she was going to interview tomorrow. He was careful, wise and patient. Livermore of the Yard, she thought.
That night, Suzie dreamed that she was walking in a field of ripe golden corn. Suddenly her daddy came striding towards her. She noticed that the corn didn’t move as he went through it. ‘Daddy — ’she tried to hug him and it didn’t quite work — ‘Daddy, what’s it like being dead?’
‘Oh, not so bad,’ he said. ‘But there’s a terrible lot to do. We don’t get a minute’s peace. Talk about eternal rest. It’s just the opposite.’
*
As that night’s raids developed it became clear that the Luftwaffe was attacking the ports again: the ports and northern cities. Early in the evening stray German aircraft came in high over London, above the balloons, nuisance bombers, spoof raiders, dropping random bombs. The All Clear sounded just after nine.
Golly didn’t like being down the shelters. Golly had nightmares when he was still awake. The nightmares made him shake and sweat. Sometimes he would scream. What he saw were terrible creatures conjured from his own mind. He knew they were not real, knew they were like parts of a dream, but that didn’t stop them frightening him. If he was going to be frightened then he’d rather be frightened in private, so he made his way back to Lavender’s flat off Rupert Street, leaving a lot of people settling down for the night in the shelters and the Underground.
Lavender had left a note for Golly saying she was over in Camford, where she had a nice little house in Dyer Street. She’d had it done up beautiful, furnishing it with bits and pieces she bought from people who had flats around Rupert Street. So many people were moving out of the metropolitan area now that you could pick up stuff for a song and Lavender had made the house in Dyer Street really nice with some lovely pictures she’d bought — paintings of country cottages with hollyhocks and roses round the door. She even had a beautiful lady in a woollen crinoline to go over the telephone — a telecosy, she called it — because she didn’t like the telephone. Said it reminded her of work.
Golly was downcast after he spelled out the note. He felt deserted and lonely. He groped his way upstairs and across the rooms that had windows looking out on the street. He stood and allowed his eyes to adjust, then groped around again, this time looking for the blackout screens: the big wooden frames to which thick blackout material was stretched and tacked. Then he crept around the flat doing the blackout. After that he went into the bathroom, turned the light on and took off his hat, unwound the muffler from around the lower part of his face, then untied the white surgical mask, leaning closer to the mirror and looking with loathing on his reflection.
There was no continuity to his face: it was like a jigsaw puzzle assembled by an idiot.
Golly was a man with two faces.
The top of his mouth was a harelip that went upwards like a lightning flash, dividing his nose, slashing between his eyebrows, cleaving his face into two separate portions as neatly as an axe stroke. The left half of his nose was smaller and more straight than the right half, while his lips were of different sizes.
His reflection was not just bizarre; it was horrific, like looking into a cracked mirror. Some days, Golly had to hang cloths over all the mirrors because he could not bear to look at himself with the two different shaped mouths, one reaching wide into his left cheek; the two noses, set askew, and the eyes at an angle to each other, so that at first sight the impression was that the left eye inhabited his forehead — the incision dividing his face running right up and disappearing into his hairline. This deep jagged trough looked red raw.
‘An abomination,’ Golly muttered quietly. ‘I am an abomination.’
And he began to weep as he did so often when he saw his reflection.
He went over and turned the light off, stumbling back to Lavender’s empty bed, clasping the teddy bear she always left on the counterpane. He held the bear close like a child as he hunched his body up and rocked to one side, whimpering. His knees drawn up to his cleft chin.
Then Golly thought about what he had done to Jo Benton. The nice voice would be pleased with him. The beautiful, soft voice he must obey. He muttered to himself, ‘I’ll come to great harm if I don’t do what I’m told. Oh dear ... Oh dear what will become of me? ... Oh dear.’
And he fell asleep, but did not dream of killing.
Then, in the dark he woke trembling, knowing that all the creatures were there, in the room, gathered around him. Moving close so that he could hear their stealthy muted shuffling. They sounded like dry sticks being moved across the floor, and in their midst the worst image of all: a rat-like creature that wal
ked on its hind legs, carrying a flag or banner over its shoulder and constantly glancing behind it. He had never seen the device or wording on the banner, yet Golly thought that if he saw it disaster would soon follow. The creature whined and whistled, making horrible noises. Golly thought of it as the Banshee. He couldn’t sleep after the Banshee came into the room.
Eleven
The Underground train rattled on towards Knightsbridge on the Piccadilly Line.
‘Shirl, do you really? Truly, I mean, do you?’ Suzie asked.
‘Do I what?’
‘You know. With your fireman.’
‘Suzie, you’re so naïve for a sergeant. You’re bloody exploitable.’
‘Exploitable?’
‘Yes, it’s a good job I’m me. If I were someone else, some Nazi woman, I’d exploit you to hell. You’re the Met’s equivalent of Pilot Officer Prune.’ She pronounced Nazi like Churchill did — Naa-zi.
They started to talk about men, and Suzie said something about natural desires and how difficult it was. ‘I’m so afraid I’ll get pregnant. It’s the one thing that stops me. But come on, Shirl. Tell me. Do you? Do you really? With the fireman?’
‘’Course I do, Skip. What d’you think? There’s a war on. Death is coming down twice nightly with matinées Thursdays and Saturdays. Neither of us have any excuse to get inside out of the bombs. It’s the luck of the draw. We’ve been born and come to maturity in the middle of a damn great war, and I’m not going to my Maker without knowing what it’s all about. Most fundamental thing in life, sex. When I finally catch a bomb with my name on it I don’t think God’s going to hold it against me, because I’ve had a man out of wedlock — regularly — and I’ve had him for pleasure not procreation. Suzie, you really ought to ...’
‘I know.’
‘Do you? Or do you believe your mum: that you’ve got to lie back and think of England on your wedding night?’
‘My Mum’s never said that.’
‘Well mine did. Said it’s only for the man’s pleasure. Used to say to me, “That’s all a man wants of a woman, his conjugals.”’
