by Laura Wilson
*
Waiting by the reception desk while someone who didn’t know fetched someone who did, Stratton felt himself wilting. He’d been feeling tired, though pleasantly so, relaxed by Matheson’s good Scotch and very ready to toddle off home. Really, he’d had no choice but to volunteer – it was important to show willing, especially at this point – but the sense of having to crank himself up again made him feel exhausted.
The ‘someone who knew’ proved to be a tired and anaemic-looking doctor who seemed almost as young and flustered as the constable at Harrow Road. ‘Obviously,’ he said, with nervous self-assertion, ‘the pathologist will confirm the cause of death but it appears to have been a stab wound to the heart, penetrating the main chamber.’ Like Hampton, thought Stratton. ‘We have made a search of the pockets,’ said the doctor, ‘and we found this’. He handed over a pawnbroker’s ticket – a local shop, Stratton noted – with the name ‘C. Johnson’ written on it in pencil, below the number.
‘Really,’ said Stratton, ‘you should have left that to us. Was there anything else?’
The young doctor shook his head, pale cheeks tinged with pink.
‘No money?’
The flush intensified. ‘Nothing at all.’
*
‘He was on his way out.’ The ambulance man was big and gruff, his sleeves rolled up to display ham-like forearms.
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Little bits. Broken-up words – nothing that made any sense.’
‘Did you pick up any particular words?’
‘Not really. “God”, and something else. Might have been “Glory”.’ Shooting an apprehensive glance upwards, the man added, ‘The hereafter, I suppose, if he knew he was going. The woman who’d telephoned was there. She said he’d been attacked by a lot of blokes – white ones – but you’ll know all about that.’
*
Stratton telephoned the station with the information on the pawn ticket and, seeing that it was now almost ten o’clock, decided to call it a night. He was about to leave the hospital when, passing the entrance to the Casualty department, he spotted Perlmann’s bookkeeper, Laskier, in the company of a pretty young redhead. We don’t rent to that sort of girl, thought Stratton, remembering their conversation that afternoon. In a pig’s arse you don’t, chum.
The two of them were sitting together, not speaking, in the middle of a bench crammed with waiting outpatients – an anxious-looking woman with a baby, another with a wailing child with a bandage tied round its face, a man with a crutch and another with an ominously bright rash spreading up his neck and across his chin. Laskier’s arm was round the girl’s shoulders, but there was a stiffness about him which – despite the concern clearly visible on his face – suggested that he did not know her particularly well. The girl herself, slight, with skin almost as pale as the white blouse she wore, looked jumpy and brittle. A man’s white handkerchief – Laskier’s, presumably – was wrapped round one of her skinny arms, a large bloom of blood seeping through it and down on to her slender hand and thin skirt. Laskier was looking down at his lap, but she was staring straight ahead, eyes huge and smudged with black make-up, helpless but somehow, at the same time, defiant. Laskier must have felt someone’s eyes on him, because he raised his head. For a moment his face was blank but then, seeing Stratton approach, he assumed a resigned expression.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Just an accident, Inspector.’
‘Fell over, didn’t I?’ The girl, whose accent was a gentrified Cockney, stared up at him, distrustful and clutching the bandage. Everything about her seemed so fragile that Stratton had the impression of some delicate wild creature caught in a trap, unable to flee.
There being nowhere to sit, Stratton hunkered down so that he wasn’t towering above her. ‘That looks nasty,’ he said. ‘What’s your name, Miss?’
The girl turned to Laskier, eyes wide with fear. ‘You promised,’ she said. ‘You said you’d never—’
‘He didn’t,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m here on another matter entirely. Just happened to be passing on my way out.’
‘This is Irene,’ said Laskier. He looked, Stratton thought, spent, deep troughs of exhaustion beneath his eyes. ‘She fell over in the street and cut her arm. I just happened to be passing –’ this was said heavily, in deliberate echo of Stratton – ‘and I brought her here.’
‘Very thoughtful of you. How old are you, love?’
Irene’s voice was barely audible. ‘Eighteen.’
‘Are you indeed?’ Stratton gave Laskier a meaningful look. ‘And where do you live?’
‘Powis Terrace.’
‘One of your tenants, Mr Laskier?’
Laskier, taking his arm from Irene’s shoulders and making to stand up, said, ‘I don’t think I have to—’
Stratton, rising so that he was directly in front of Laskier, said quietly, ‘I think you do. It’s a simple enough question.’ Looking down at Irene, who shrank away from him, he said, ‘What number Powis Terrace?’
‘Twelve.’ Again, he could hardly hear her.
‘And who’s your landlord?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Mr Perlmann is the landlord,’ said Laskier.
‘Where are your parents?’ asked Stratton. ‘Do they know you’re here?’
Irene shook her head.
‘Well,’ said Stratton, ‘I think they’d like to know, don’t you? Are they on the telephone?’
Irene, now staring down at the bandage on her arm, shook her head again.
‘I see. Do they live at number twelve?’
This time the head shake was violent and when Irene raised her head, Stratton saw that her face was now a chalky white and she had tears in her eyes. ‘Please …’ the word came out in a terrified whisper.
‘OK.’ Stratton turned to Laskier. ‘What’s going on? Having a party, were you? Bit early for things to get out of hand, I’d have thought—’
He was cut off by a shout of ‘Miss Palmer!’
Irene got to her feet. Laskier was about to accompany her, when Stratton said, ‘She’ll manage by herself. Off you go, love.’
They watched while Irene was led away to a cubicle by a bosomy nurse. ‘Well?’ said Stratton, taking Irene’s place on the bench.
‘There was no party,’ said Laskier. ‘I found her in the street.’
‘Did you see her fall over?’
‘No. She was like that when I found her. Bleeding. She said she’d fallen over.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘No.’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘Portobello Road. The corner of Oxford Gardens.’
‘What time was that?’
‘I think … about nine o’clock.’
Stratton glanced at his wristwatch and saw that it was five-and-twenty past. ‘Did she say what she was doing there?’
‘She said she was going for a walk.’
‘On her own?’
Laskier nodded. ‘I think she was lost.’
‘So close to home? Not very likely, is it?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before, Inspector. When she told me where she lived, I was surprised, but…’ Laskier shrugged. ‘People come and go – it’s difficult to keep track of them.’
‘But she lives with one of your tenants.’
‘Yes,’ said Laskier wearily. ‘A Jamaican called Clinton Etheridge. But I only know this because she told me. I think she’s run away from home.’
‘And where’s this Etheridge character now?’
‘I have no idea. These girls …’ Laskier shook his head.
‘And she stuck to her story about falling over?’
‘Yes.’
‘No mention of a punter getting rough with her?’
‘No.’ Laskier looked thoughtful. ‘I can see how it appears to be, Inspector, but I don’t think she’s selling herself. She doesn’t look … you know?’
Stratton could see w
hat Laskier meant. If Irene was on the game, she hadn’t been doing it for long enough to acquire the patina of use.
‘I think she’s a nice girl,’ said Laskier. ‘I was thinking … maybe we offer her a job at the club.’
‘Club?’
‘I’m sorry. I think – thought – you already know this. Maxine’s Club. In the West End.’
Stratton thought of the clientele Maxine’s attracted: aristocrats, debutantes in fur stoles, mannequins, wealthy businessmen – elegant, assured and debonair. He couldn’t imagine a shy working-class girl like Irene, however pretty she was, fitting into such a place. She did, however, strike him as ripe for exploitation, if not by the chap she currently lived with then by someone else. ‘What sort of a job?’ he asked.
‘Waitress.’ Laskier looked at him for a moment, and Stratton had a sense of someone unutterably sad as well as very tired. ‘Serving drinks to the customers. Nothing more. I would like to help her, if I can. She reminds me of my sister.’ Before Stratton could formulate anything approaching a response to this, he added gently, ‘Or perhaps I only think she does. I can’t remember. A dream, perhaps. But it doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton awkwardly. ‘I’m sure you’ll do your best for her,’ he added, getting to his feet. ‘You’ll see she gets home all right?’
‘Yes.’
*
At the door of the Casualty department Stratton, turning, saw that Laskier was staring ahead of him, and wondered what the man was seeing. The half-remembered features of a girl who, in a crowd of faceless others, was herded away to be killed? Without knowing why, he felt a deep sense of shame. He attempted, as the train took him home, to rationalise it away – after all, what had happened to Laskier’s sister, and probably his whole family, was no fault of his – but it remained with him, inexplicable and impervious to logic or excuse.
CHAPTER NINE
It was gone midnight when Stratton arrived back in Tottenham, so he was surprised to see a light coming from behind his sitting room curtains, as neither of his sisters-in-law – who, since Jenny’s death, had taken it in turns to do the housekeeping – would be there so late. Opening the door, he heard Pete’s voice call out, ‘Hello, Dad!’ and a moment later his son, 6 foot 4 in his socks, stood in front of him, filling the hall. ‘I’ve been expecting you for hours. Aunt Doris let me in.’
Since leaving home for the army eight years before, Pete had forgotten or lost his key so many times that Stratton had eventually refused to replace it. ‘Well, I wasn’t expecting you. You might have phoned or something.’
‘Last-minute change of plan,’ said Pete airily. ‘And I’m afraid I’ve eaten your supper.’ He made a hitch-hiking movement behind him with his thumb, and Stratton saw a plate on the rug beside his armchair, empty but for a leaf of lettuce and a smear of what looked like mustard.
‘Looks like you enjoyed it,’ said Stratton, taking off his jacket. Having stopped feeling hungry at about the time he spotted Laskier and Irene at the hospital, he didn’t really mind, although he wished Pete wouldn’t be quite so offhand about things.
‘I did, thanks. Anyway, I’ve got some news. Fancy a drink? I bought some beer.’
Stratton loosened his tie and jerked it over his head. ‘Why not?’ Although tired, he didn’t feel ready for bed yet – too unsettled – and Pete’s news, whatever it was, might help to take his mind off things.
He went through to the scullery and splashed his face with water at the sink. ‘God, that’s better.’
‘How’s the new job?’ Pete lounged against the door of the refrigerator that Stratton had recently bought after Doris and Lilian had joined forces to nag him about it.
‘Not sure yet. Tiring, anyway. Pass me that towel, will you?’ Pete grabbed a tea towel off the hook behind the kitchen door and chucked it in his direction. ‘Not that one!’
‘Oh, never mind. Come on, Dad,’ Pete dislodged himself enough to open the fridge and take out two bottles of beer. ‘We’ve got something to celebrate.’
Stratton looked up from rubbing his face on the tea towel, which smelt faintly of gravy. ‘Have we?’
‘I’ve got an announcement.’ Pete wielded the bottle opener with a flourish.
‘Oh?’ Stratton dropped the tea towel on the draining board. Pete rarely, if ever, told him anything at all about himself and was only slightly more forthcoming to Monica, his elder sister. It wasn’t that he expected his son to wear his heart on his sleeve, but a little more information, he’d often felt, would be nice. Relations between them had been strained for some years after Jenny’s death, and, wary of arguments as well as respecting privacy, he’d refrained from asking the boy too many questions. Some years ago he’d come to the conclusion that he must have failed Pete, but over time he’d decided, in a cautious, provisional way, that perhaps he might not have done so badly after all. Nowadays the lad (if one could call him that, at 26) seemed fairly contented and hadn’t, so far as he knew, got into any serious trouble.
‘Yes. Here you go.’
Stratton took the bottle his son had shoved towards his midriff and made a show of looking at it pointedly. Pete gave an exasperated sigh and started yanking open cupboard doors.
‘In there.’
‘Right.’ Pete handed him a glass. ‘Now can I tell you?’
Stratton took his time filling his glass, enjoying his son’s obvious impatience. ‘Fire away, then.’
‘I’m getting married.’
‘Ah.’ Stratton wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected to hear – he’d rather assumed, given the general lack of personal information, that it must be something to do with his career. ‘Do I know her?’
‘Alison. I brought her here at Easter, remember?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Pete had been as casual about Alison – Stratton remembered dark curly hair, gorgeous deep brown eyes and generous breasts – as he had about all her predecessors, so Stratton hadn’t attached any particular importance to the visit. ‘Well, congratulations. She seemed very …’ Stratton faltered. The truth was that, hair, eyes and breasts excepted, he could remember nothing about Alison except that she’d giggled quite a bit. ‘… nice,’ he finished, lamely. ‘Lively. Anyway, cheers,’ he concluded, raising his glass.
Pete leant forward and clinked his bottle against it. ‘Cheers. We’re thinking about November. Something fairly quiet.’
‘Does the bride’s mother know that?’ asked Stratton, recalling Jenny’s mum’s insistence on organising every detail of the proceedings. Not that it had been a particularly fancy wedding – quite a modest affair, in fact. He realised that, at this distance – he’d been married in 1929 – he couldn’t remember very much of the actual event at all, except that Jenny had looked beautiful and that, despite his nerves, his speech had gone off all right.
‘I think so. Alison’s family’s not well-off or anything, so it won’t be a great big do. I’m leaving it up to her.’
‘You’ve known her for a while, haven’t you? Monica told me you were writing to her when you were in Suez, but you never mentioned her to me, so I thought … I didn’t think anything, really, because you never seemed to be very involved with anyone – any of the others, I mean – and … Well, I thought you were playing the field.’
Pete’s eyes widened and for a moment Stratton thought he’d offended him. Then he laughed. ‘I suppose I was. Or that’s what I thought. Bit of a lady’s man, you know? But then I realised they kept on giving me the chuck.’
‘I did wonder,’ said Stratton. ‘The ones you brought here, you never mentioned them afterwards, and you were pretty offhand when I asked, so …’
‘Yeah.’ Pete grinned ruefully. ‘But Alison’s different.’
‘Do you think she’ll take to being an army wife? I know my job was difficult for your mother sometimes, but at least we always lived in the same place, and—’
‘Actually, Dad, that was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. I’m thinking of jacking it
in.’
‘Seriously?’ This was even more of a surprise. When Pete had opted to stay in the army after doing his National Service, Stratton had assumed he’d remain there until they retired him.
‘Seriously. In fact …’ Pete looked uncharacteristically diffident, ‘I was thinking of joining the police force.’
Stratton blinked. ‘Really? I know you were interested at one stage, but when you opted for the army, I thought—’
‘So did I. But now, with Alison and everything …’
‘Everything? She’s not …?’
Pete laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. It’s not going to be a shotgun wedding.’
‘That’s a relief.’ It would also be a relief, Stratton thought, if Pete’s future didn’t involve being posted to Cyprus or Malaya or anywhere else where he stood a good chance of getting his head blown off. ‘But it’s a big step, you know.’
‘Which bit?’
‘All of it – getting married and leaving the army, starting a new career. Are you sure about it?’
‘I’m sure about Alison, Dad.’ This was said quietly, with total sincerity. ‘I know I’ve been a bit of a … well, a shit really in the past, but now, with her, you know … And you were younger than me when you married Mum, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, ‘I was – twenty-four. But I knew that marrying her was the best thing that was ever going to happen to me.’
‘Yeah.’ Pete looked down at his feet, embarrassed. ‘Look, Dad,’ the words came out in a sort of staccato mumble, ‘I’m sorry. About the things I said. You know, after Mum died. It wasn’t fair.’
Stratton cleared his throat. ‘It’s all right,’ he said gruffly. He fumbled for his cigarettes, uncertain of what to say. ‘Tell you what – let’s forget it, shall we?’
