by Laura Wilson
‘Yeah. Thanks.’ There was an awkward pause during which Pete looked at his feet a bit more before adding, ‘Long day, eh?’
Stratton rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. ‘Still getting my bearings.’
‘Bit different from Piccadilly, I should think. Do they give you Wog Money?’
‘Give me what?’
Pete grinned. ‘Wog Money. It’s what you get if you’re attached to a West Indian regiment. Like a bonus – by way of compensation.’
‘No, they bloody well don’t,’ said Stratton.
‘Perhaps they should. The ones in Suez would nick everything they could get their hands on if you gave them half a chance.’
‘For Christ’s sake … You won’t get very far in the police force with that sort of attitude.’
‘All right, Dad.’ Pete held up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
‘Yes, well.’ Stratton took another gulp of his drink. The last thing he wanted was to have a row with Pete, especially now. In any case, he wasn’t exactly sure of his own feelings on the subject – it was all too new for him to have formulated any sort of solid opinion. Besides, he knew damn well that ‘that sort of attitude’ would not be any sort of bar in the police force; in fact, as far as casual canteen utterance went, it would be just the reverse – and one thing he definitely did know was that a bunch of policemen with racialist ideas were going to cause a damn sight more of a problem than there was already. ‘They’re British citizens, and they’re entitled to the same treatment as everyone else.’
‘OK, keep your hair on. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
Stratton sighed. That had been the problem with his son for as long as he could remember – he’d come out with things that upset people or made them angry, and then claim it was a joke or an innocent remark. Not wanting to end on a sour note, and also feeling that it wouldn’t be right, under the circumstances, to go up to bed before he’d finished his beer, especially as Pete was in the process of opening another bottle, he started telling him about Matheson.
‘Old school, then? Firm but fair?’
‘All that.’
‘Sounds like one of the sergeants we had when I did National Service. Some of them were bastards, but this chap … Oh, he’d stick it to you, all right.’ Pete threw back his shoulders and brought one elbow in as if carrying a swagger stick, and bellowed, ‘Stratton, you’re marching like a donkey wiv an ’ard-on!’
Stratton laughed. ‘He said that to you, did he?’
‘And the rest. Thing was, I couldn’t get the hang of marching, not at first. I don’t know why – I was good at PT and everything, always picked for the teams at school – but I just couldn’t do it.’ Pete shook his head. ‘I was all over the place. I used to lose sleep over it – how I was going to let the others down on parade and all that.’
‘Did you?’ Stratton was surprised again by this admission of weakness, so unlike the Pete he knew. This Alison girl really was having a good effect, he decided.
‘Oh, yes. I used to lie there and think about what happened at school … There was this gym master, when we were evacuated, he used to make the boys who couldn’t vault over the horse stay behind for hours, practising. You know, the fat ones and the feeble types. Every bloody night after school. I don’t think there was one of them who ever learnt to do it, but he kept on and on, shouting at them, telling them they were useless … We – I mean the rest of us, who could do it – thought it was funny at the time, but then, with the marching thing, I felt terrible about it, how we’d laughed at them.’
‘Was that when you had to share premises with that boarding school?’
‘Yeah. Load of snobs – called us the Cockney kids. The boys, that was. The teachers just looked down their noses. It was their gym master who did that. Our bloke got called up, I think – anyway, he didn’t come with us like the others did.’
Stratton was struck by how little he knew about his children’s schooldays. They’d written, of course, but they’d had their own war, out in the country, while he’d been having his in London. ‘You never told us they gave you a hard time.’ As he said this, Stratton wondered if Pete had actually mentioned it in one of his otherwise uncommunicative letters, and he’d somehow missed it.
‘Not particularly.’ Pete shrugged. ‘Just the usual stuff. Didn’t bother me, anyway.’ He grinned and held up a fist. ‘I could look after myself. And it was good, in a way, mixing with different sorts. Like the army. But this sergeant, he was decent. Really took me under his wing. He’d be shouting at me on the parade ground all morning, but he always had a word afterwards. You know, “Don’t worry, lad, you’ll get the hang of it.” And I did, eventually.’
‘Why did you decide to stay in the army?’ asked Stratton. He’d often wondered about this, but the opportunity to ask Pete had never, before now, presented itself.
Pete fiddled with his beer bottle for so long that Stratton was about to say he was sorry he’d asked and didn’t mean to pry when he said, ‘Partly because of blokes like that sergeant, I suppose, but more … Well, I was used it, wasn’t I? I mean, it wasn’t as if I had a place at some university waiting for me, and even if they bugger you about a bit, you know where you are in the army. What’s expected. To be honest, I think I was a bit … Well, scared.’ He put his fists up to his eyes in a gruesome parody of a crying child. ‘Boohoo, the big world outside.’ Taking another pull from the bottle he said, ‘You know, if I left I’d have to be the new recruit again, somewhere else. Stupid, really.’
‘You always seemed pretty sure of yourself,’ said Stratton.
‘Yeah, well … Got to look the part, haven’t you? Otherwise people take advantage.’
‘I suppose so.’ As Stratton said this, he realised that there was no ‘suppose’ about it. ‘Looking the part’ was exactly what he’d be doing at Harrow Road until he got the hang of things. And he could see, too, that the army, where it was a virtue not to think, and certainly not to imagine, but just to do what one was told, had a sort of harsh comfort. ‘You’ll be all right in the big world outside – just takes a bit of getting used to, that’s all. I was pretty green when I started police training. I’d never been to London before, and the others used to call me Farmer Giles because of my accent.’
Pete laughed. ‘You’ve never told us that before.’
‘Well, you don’t want to listen to my old stories. Anyway, I was homesick at first because it was all so different, but then I started to like it, and … Well, that’s it, really. I suppose,’ Stratton added, feeling that something of a more pensive nature was called for, ‘it’s about feeling that you’re where you should be.’
He fell silent, feeling that as philosophical remarks went, this was a pretty lame effort, but Pete surprised him by nodding thoughtfully and saying, ‘Yes, you’re right. A place where you belong. Here,’ he held out his cigarettes. ‘Have one of these.’
‘Thanks.’
‘By the way, Dad, I’m sorry about your girlfriend. Leaving and everything.’
Stratton paid close attention to extracting a cigarette from the packet, and then to the proffered match, before saying, ‘Monica told you, did she?’
‘Yes.’ Pete lit his own cigarette, avoiding his father’s eye. ‘She said she’d got married and gone to live in America.’
‘That’s right,’ said Stratton. ‘Probably for the best, in the long run.’
*
As he pulled on his pyjamas, he wondered if the guards in the camp who’d tormented Laskier and herded his sister into a gas chamber had felt a similar sense of security and belonging. If he or Pete had been called upon to do something like that, would they have obeyed? He bloody well hoped not. But, he thought as he got into bed, no one could say that they wouldn’t, could they? Not if they were honest – unless they’d actually been in that particular situation themselves and refused to cooperate despite whatever threats or blandishments were being offered, of course. It was interesting, Stratton thought as he dr
ifted off to sleep, that nowadays he no longer identified with the heroes in books he read, thinking that if the circumstances were different, he could be like them. Nowadays, he identified with the chaps who’d failed or compromised or turned out to be cowards or let people down … It was his age, he supposed. Pete wouldn’t think like that. Or Stratton hoped he wouldn’t. Not yet, anyway.
CHAPTER TEN
Opening the Express the following morning in the bus on the way to work, Stratton was astonished to discover that the killing had already been reported. The victim’s name wasn’t given – hardly surprising as the poor bastard hadn’t been identified yet – but there was a statement from Matheson. We are satisfied, Stratton read, with mounting disbelief, that it was the work of a small group of white teenagers who had only one motive – robbery or attempted robbery of a man who was walking the streets alone. The fact that he happened to be coloured does not, in our view, come into the question.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he muttered, louder than he’d intended and causing several people sitting nearby to glare reproachfully. Taking the official line was one thing, but talk about jumping the gun … It was true that the doctor at St Charles’s – who Stratton had no reason to disbelieve – had found nothing in the corpse’s pockets but a pawn ticket, so money or other valuables could well have been stolen from him, but Matheson didn’t actually know this, any more than he knew the intentions of the as-yet-unidentified assailants. Stratton wondered if the speed with which he’d acted – Matheson must have spoken to the journalists very soon after he himself had left Harrow Road for the hospital – was due to pressure from above.
*
There were still a few pressmen hovering about when he arrived at the police station. ‘All leave’s been cancelled,’ said a gloomy-looking PC Jellicoe. ‘I was going to take the wife down to Eastbourne. Been looking forward to putting my feet up for a few days.’
Stratton, suppressing a cartoon image of Jellicoe, trousers rolled up and paddling in the sea with a knotted handkerchief on his head, commiserated. ‘Has the pawnbroker come up with an address yet?’ he asked.
‘Powis Square. Number 45. Name’s Clyde Johnson.’
‘That sounds familiar.’ Stratton leafed through his notebook and discovered that it was the same address Marion Lockwood had given him. ‘Hmm … What was the item, by the way?’
‘A watch. Not a very good one – bloke only give him three-and-six. That was on Monday. I’ve got the name and address of Mrs Marwood, the woman who called the police. The guv’nor sent a couple of blokes last night to talk to the neighbours, and they had a quick word with her too, but he said to tell you it’s all yours.’
*
Golborne Road – at least the section near the railway where Mrs Marwood lived – was empty but for a woman banging a mat against the wall outside the Earl of Warwick pub and two men peering under the bonnet of an elderly Singer which, apart from the car he was driving, was the only vehicle in sight. The Marwoods’ flat was part of a dingy terrace, all cracked skylights, rotting windowsills, broken railings with buddleia sprouting between them and peeling paint on the front doors.
Mrs Marwood came to the door in a dressing gown. She was, Stratton thought, about twenty years old. Pale as a wraith, and looked as though she was about to collapse from exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when he’d introduced himself. ‘I’ve been up all night with the baby. She’s only just gone off, and my husband works nights, so please—’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Stratton, sotto voce. ‘I’ll keep my voice down.’
Susie Marwood tottered into the front room, which was a kitchen, and sat down at the table. The place, although fairly clean, was untidy, its surfaces cluttered with dirty dishes and odds and ends of food.
‘I was here with Sandra,’ she said, indicating the window, ‘walking up and down, trying to get her to settle. I must have had my back to the window, but I heard a noise so I turned round and I saw a coloured man being pushed and shoved by a lot of white boys.’
Stratton looked out of the window and found that he had a clear view of both sides of the Earl of Warwick on the corner diagonally opposite as well as to the street directly opposite with its row of shops that led away from the railway bridge.
‘What time was this?’
‘About half past eight, I think. Maybe earlier. I’m not really sure.’
‘And where exactly were they?’
‘Down there. Outside the grocer’s. It was shut, obviously.’
‘Did you see where any of the men came from?’
Mrs Marwood shook her head. ‘I wasn’t really paying attention – Sandra was crying, and … I’m sorry, Inspector. She never sleeps …’ She shook her head in helpless despair. ‘I barely know what day it is.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Marwood. Tell you what, why don’t I make you a cup of tea?’
Susie Marwood blinked at him, and for a brief moment her eyes lit up with astonishment. ‘I’d have offered,’ she said, ‘but once I sit down I feel as if I’ll never be able to get up again. To be honest, I’m surprised I haven’t nodded off talking to you.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Stratton. ‘You look as though you could do with one, that’s all. Just point me in the direction of the tea caddy, and I’ll do the rest.’
*
‘You are good,’ she said, as Stratton poured out two cups and set them on the table. ‘Joe can’t find his way round a kitchen at all. Not that I’d expect him to,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I shouldn’t complain – I’ve got the loveliest baby in the world. It’s just …’ She tailed off, looking as if she might burst into tears at any moment.
‘My wife was just the same,’ said Stratton, ‘when we had our two.’ As he said it, he wondered if that had actually been the case. There must have been some times when Monica and Pete had refused to go to sleep – he remembered waking in the night on the odd occasion – but Jenny had always dealt with it. And of course she’d had her sisters, whose children were that bit older, to help her … Susie Marwood, he guessed, didn’t have that sort of support.
‘How many men were there?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure. Six or seven. They were all round him, barging him, and one of them pushed him so he fell down against the wall.’
‘Were they making a noise?’
‘They were shouting – I had the window open because it was hot, so I could hear.’
‘Did you hear what they were shouting?’
‘Some of it. “You black so-and-so,” and worse. It was quite loud.’
‘Did anyone come out of the pub to see what was happening?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘What happened after the man was pushed?’
‘Well, they were crowding round him, sort of jostling, all arms and legs, pushing and shoving. One of them had a wooden stick in his hand, and another had a bit of railing, or that’s what it looked like, anyway … And then they all stepped back and I saw that the coloured man was lying on the pavement, and then I saw these two girls—’
‘Were they there before?’
‘I don’t know – I mean, I didn’t see them. At first I thought they must be with the boys, but then one of them turned round and saw them, and he shouted, “That’s a black man’s whore.” One of the girls ran away and the other girl stood there for a second and then she ran away too, and the boys chased them.’
‘All the boys ran after them at once?’
‘I suppose so. Some of them were quicker – I was watching the girls, so I didn’t notice.’
‘Which direction did they go?’ asked Stratton.
‘That way.’ She pointed towards the railway bridge. ‘None of them stayed behind, though, because when I looked back at the coloured man he was lying – well, sort of half-lying, half-sitting – there, and there wasn’t anyone with him. I couldn’t see any blood, but he wasn’t moving and I couldn’t see no one coming to help him, so I went out to the telephone box. I couldn’t leav
e the baby and it was difficult to make myself understood because she was crying. By the time the ambulance came there was quite a crowd, and then the police arrived so I told them what I’d seen. And I spoke to them again, after, and they told me the man died. Joe said I shouldn’t of got involved, but the bloke was just lying there and I couldn’t pretend I never saw it, could I?’
‘No, love,’ said Stratton. ‘You did the right thing. Did you see anyone trying to rob the man? Going through his pockets, or anything like that?’
‘No. It all happened so quick, and then they all just stepped away from him. I don’t know about afterwards though – there were so many people there, and Sandra was crying …’
‘Can you describe what the men looked like?’
‘Quite young. Teenagers, or not much more, anyway. Some of them were wearing the Teddy boy stuff – the longer jackets. The rest just looked ordinary. Brown hair – one of them had black hair – but they were moving about very fast, so it was only an impression, really.’
‘You didn’t recognise any of them?’
Mrs Marwood shook her head. ‘As far as I know, I’ve never seen them before in my life.’
‘What about the two girls?’
‘Never seen them before, either. One was about the same age as the men, I think – the other one looked a bit older, but she was quite tarted up. Blonde hair, done up at the back, high heels, dark-coloured dress, sleeveless, with a full skirt … The younger one just had a blouse and skirt – they were both quite slim, but she looked more like a kid, if you know what I mean. Reddish hair. The other one’s hair looked as if it might have been dyed, but I don’t think hers was.’
‘What colour were the blouse and skirt?’
‘White blouse, nothing very fancy … The skirt was blue, blue-grey.’
Stratton thought of Irene, sitting with Laskier in the hospital. ‘And her hair was red?’
‘Yes. But more pale. I mean, not too dark. I’m sorry I can’t be more exact about it, but … It was like a nightmare. That poor man …’
