The Riot

by Laura Wilson

  ‘Well, thank you. It’s nice of you to say so.’

  There was a short, awkward pause and then Stratton said, ‘What is it you do? It’s so noisy in here that I’m afraid I didn’t entirely catch what Mrs Rutherford was saying when she introduced us.’

  ‘I’m on the Care Committee – that’s how I know Virginia. It’s a bit of a mixed bag, really. A lot of the time it’s rather like being with Universal Aunts – you know, escorting children about the place, visiting pensioners, and so on – except that it’s voluntary, and of course I’m not trained or anything, although I was a teacher before I married. I haven’t been at it all that long, so I’m still finding my feet, really.’

  ‘But you enjoy it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, so far, anyway. It probably sounds rather silly to … well, to someone like you, but it’s nice to feel one’s being useful, even in a small way. After my husband died …’ The last words reverberated round Stratton’s head, temporarily blocking out the rest of what she was saying. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might be a widow. She’d given the information quite matter-of-factly, so he supposed that it must have been a while since her husband had died … The fine lines he could see about her eyes and mouth suggested that she might be in her mid or even late forties, although she didn’t look it.

  Making himself focus on what she was saying, he caught the words, ‘… and now that our son is grown up, it’s really—’

  At that point, someone jostled past Fenella so that, for a moment, he felt a charge like a small electrical shock as her body bumped against his.

  ‘I am sorry, Inspector.’

  ‘Ted, please.’

  ‘Ted, then.’ Fenella looked down at her glass. ‘Good job it was empty.’

  ‘Would you like another?’ His own glass was empty, too, but the last thing he wanted to do at this point was to get into the time-wasting rigmarole of trying to catch a waiter’s eye, or – worse – having to make his way through the crowd to the drinks table, which would mean leaving her to be buttonholed by somebody else.

  ‘Heavens, no. I don’t really know why I accepted this one – I’ve never liked sherry much. Virginia’s much more sensible – always opts for orange squash, and doesn’t give a hoot what anyone thinks. But what about you? Would you like another drink?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Stratton, hastily. ‘I’m fine. You were saying …?’

  ‘I think,’ Fenella gave him a delightfully impish smile which made him feel breathless again, ‘that I’ve told you quite enough about myself, and it’s your turn.’

  ‘I’m finding my feet too. Harrow Road’s a new posting for me. I was in the West End before …’ He carried on talking for another minute or so, while she listened, apparently with interest. ‘… and so,’ he concluded, ‘I ended up here.’

  ‘Do you think you’re going to like it?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly different. One gets used to things, I suppose, and people …’ He talked a bit more, hoping like hell that he was presenting himself as reasonable and conscientious, without seeming dull, and again she seemed to be following, keeping her eyes on his and looking generally engaged.

  ‘Did you grow up in the West Country?’ she asked.

  ‘Devon. I know,’ said Stratton, ‘there’s still a touch of the oo-arr.’

  ‘I rather like it.’

  Feeling ridiculously pleased by this, Stratton said, ‘That’s just as well, because I don’t suppose I’ll ever get rid of it now.’

  ‘Did you try? At first, I mean?’

  ‘Not really. They used to call me Farmer Giles.’ How strange, he thought. The only person he’d ever said that to was Jenny, and now here he was, twice in two days. ‘I married a London girl, and she used to laugh about it – it was much stronger then, of course. I never made any effort to change it – not consciously, anyway – it just wore off over the years.’ Then, on impulse, because he thought he’d seen an almost imperceptible – very possibly imaginary – flicker of a frown pass across Fenella’s face, he added, ‘She died, unfortunately. During the war.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘These things happen. Well, you know, of course. Your husband…’

  ‘Yes …’ Fenella looked down at her feet. ‘They do.’

  There was another, even more awkward silence, and then Fenella put a gentle hand on his arm, the pressure there for just a moment, then gone. Meeting her eye once more, he saw that her expression was one of calm seriousness. ‘It’s terrible,’ she said, ‘if you marry someone, and you’re happy – not necessarily all the time, because one couldn’t be – but you know what I mean, and you can’t imagine not being with that person, not growing old with them … and then they’re gone and everything changes. And of course one gets used to them not actually being around, and with not being the person you were when you were with them, and after a while – quite a long while, in my case – you stop feeling like half of something with the other bit missing. I’m probably not saying this very well, but—’

  ‘Found you at last!’ The Hon. Virginia reappeared, trailing in her wake a youngish, heavily bearded man who, on being introduced, started talking nineteen to the dozen about the excellent progress made by some society or other, punctuating himself with assertive jabs of his pipe, so that Stratton and Fenella found themselves inching away as far as they could without actually crashing into the people standing behind them. Fenella suddenly said that she was terribly sorry to interrupt but she really had to be going. The Hon. Virginia, apparently taking her cue from this, said that they ought to go too, or her husband would be wondering where she’d got to.

  Leaving the pipe chap to find someone else to talk at, Stratton led the way, with a lot of ‘Excuse me’ and ‘If I might just …’ to the door. At this point the Hon. Virginia said, ‘Oh, crikey, I’ve forgotten Mr Matheson!’ and doubled back into the crowd, so that he found himself alone with Fenella in the comparative peace of the wood-panelled landing.

  ‘Goodness, wasn’t it hot in there?’ Fenella was, he noticed, looking slightly flushed, fanning the air in front of her face with her hand.

  Banishing a sudden and discomfiting image of himself, face like a tomato, hair all over the place and tie askew, he said, ‘Yes, wasn’t it?’

  Fenella glanced around her and then back at him, looking as if she’d been about to say something but thought better of it.

  ‘Look—’ he started, at the same time as she began with, ‘Well, it’s been very nice—’

  After a few seconds of false starts on both sides, Stratton said, ‘About what you were saying, before – I thought you expressed it very well. Very well indeed, in fact. And,’ he gabbled, as a hoot of laughter from somewhere near the doorway told him that the Hon. Virginia was about to bear down on them, ‘I wondered if you might like to go out to dinner some time.’

  ‘Here we are!’ The Hon. Virginia bustled up, accompanied by DS Matheson. Patting her hair back into place with a large, white-gloved hand, she said, ‘All set?’

  The two women proceeded downstairs to the cloakroom, Stratton following with Matheson. As Fenella hadn’t answered his question, he wondered if she might be going to make a polite pretence, given that the Hon. Virginia had been honking away just behind her, of not having heard it. She said nothing as he helped her on with her coat – the same creamy-yellow and simple design as the frock – and, standing behind her, he was just gearing himself up for an urbane and inconsequential goodbye when she turned round, gave him a big smile, and said, ‘Thank you. I’d love to have dinner with you.’

  *

  ‘How can I contact you?’ Stratton asked, as they went down the front steps slightly behind the other two.

  ‘I’m in the directory. C. H. Jones – I’m afraid I haven’t got round to changing it.’

  ‘Can we drop you anywhere, Fenella?’ asked the Hon. Virginia, indicating the black Daimler saloon waiting at the kerb.

  ‘Heavens, no. I only live round the corner, and it’s st
ill light. Besides, I could do with a breath of fresh air.’

  As the chauffeur bore them away, Stratton turned to wave at Fenella as she crossed the road. It was the first time he’d had a clear view of her legs – which, he noted with satisfaction, were quite as nice as the rest of her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In nightclub terms, it was fairly early when they arrived at Maxine’s, and Stratton was surprised to find it so busy. Standing in a corner with Matheson – ‘I’ll introduce you in a moment. Get the lie of the land first, eh?’ – he sipped his drink and took stock of the place. The decor was plush, with plenty of gilt and velvet, extravagant floral displays, a large and well-supplied bar and a special area for dancing. The place was, as far as he could see, one very large room, with various recessed doors leading off it. Pretty mannequins, each with a fashionable expression of camel-like hauteur, were stationed here and there – rather, Stratton thought, in the manner of the potted palms at the previous do. Most of them were being engaged in conversation, and, in a couple of cases, discreetly pawed, by various of the male clientele. All of these seemed to be thirty-five or older – sometimes considerably, well-heeled and, to judge by the ringing voices that rose effortlessly over the music, well-bred. Stratton had a sudden memory of being called, as a young policeman, to a disturbance in a club in a grand house somewhere off Piccadilly. He couldn’t remember what had happened, but he did have a vivid recollection of a group of red-faced Etonians, egged on by the whores, squirting each other with soda siphons and quaffing champagne straight from the bottle. He wondered if any of them were here now; still, after more than thirty years, insulated from life by money and privilege.

  ‘That’s Perlmann, over there.’ Matheson nodded in the direction of a short, plump chap of perhaps forty with a receding hairline and small, expressive hands. He was seated in an alcove with several women who seemed to be hanging on to his every word. His shark-skin suit, a fraction too tight, and general air of brash dynamism made Stratton think of American gangster films he’d seen before the war. He could hear nothing of what was being said, but the bursts of feminine laughter that punctuated it sounded genuine enough. ‘This place is named after his wife, although I don’t think she comes in very often. I’ll introduce you to him in a moment.’

  The Hon. Virginia joined them, bringing with her a man who she announced, rather breathlessly, as ‘my husband, Giles Rutherford’.

  Rutherford, Stratton noted immediately, was well-built, a fair bit younger than his wife, and had good looks that were showing signs of being eroded by dissipation. His handshake was perfunctory and his ‘pleased to meet you’ a bored, rapid drawl. He remained with them just as long as the minimum standard of politeness required, then wandered off to cut in on one of the mannequins. If his wife minded this, she gave no immediate sign of it. A few moments later, Matheson was claimed by an old buffer called Wuffy or Wuggy or some other upper-class nursery mispronunciation. The Hon. Virginia carried on talking with determined animation on the subject of the Care Committee subject for about thirty seconds, then said, ‘You seemed rather taken with Mrs Jones, Inspector.’

  Stratton, disconcerted by the abrupt change of tack and the sudden shrewdness of her gaze, said, ‘Yes. She seemed very nice. Very … charming.’

  ‘She is. Quite a “hit” with the chaps. I’ve often wondered how that would feel.’ This was said wistfully, and with such a complete lack of self-pity that Stratton, lost for words, would have been unable to produce a gallant lie. For a moment he wondered if she’d had too much sherry, then remembered Fenella’s remark about the orange squash. He was saved from having to reply by Perlmann, who suddenly bobbed up beside him like a cork, enveloping Stratton in a cloud of eau-de-cologne, beaming and patting the Hon. Virginia on the bottom. Far from being offended by this, she surprised Stratton by giving a girlish giggle.

  ‘Danny, you are terrible.’

  ‘I am, aren’t I? You look beautiful as always, Virginia. Now, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ Perlmann’s voice was slightly high-pitched, and his accent similar to Laskier’s but with more careful and emphatic pronunciation, the longer words broken into distinct syllables.

  ‘This is Inspector Stratton, from the station at Harrow Road. I hope you don’t mind—’

  ‘Not at all! Don’t worry, dear lady.’ Shaking hands with Stratton, Perlmann said, ‘Danny Perlmann. Pleased to meet you. You came to the office, I think? Stefan told me.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stratton, feeling on the back foot. ‘Yesterday morning.’

  ‘And he mentioned poor Mr Johnson, of course. Very unfortunate. But now is not the time, I think?’

  Stratton, who could sense waves of inquisitiveness coming off the Hon. Virginia, agreed hastily.

  ‘A sad business,’ said Perlmann, ‘but for now … I see you have a drink, which is good – although we have champagne, if you would prefer—’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Stratton, ‘but I’m fine with beer.’

  ‘Good, good … And we have beautiful ladies. I can introduce you.’ Perlmann winked.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ said Stratton, ‘but I’m quite happy just looking.’

  Perlmann eyed him for a moment, then said, ‘You are clever, I think. Stefan said you were, and he’s never wrong about these things.’

  ‘Funny,’ said Stratton. ‘He said that about you too.’

  ‘Did he?’ Perlmann laughed. ‘Then there is proof that he is never wrong. But you know, Inspector, there is something I never understand about the English. They think that if a man is clever he must be cold, and if he is …’ he put his hand over his heart, ‘then he must be stupid. It is ridiculous. I do not think that you are a cold person, Inspector.’

  ‘Well,’ said Stratton, ‘I do my best.’

  ‘So English!’ Perlmann laughed again, this time uproariously, as though Stratton had made a great joke. There was, Stratton thought, something of the showman about him, as though he were playing the part of himself. ‘You do your best. And Virginia does her best too, don’t you, my dear?’ He rolled his eyes lasciviously, and – once more to Stratton’s surprise – the Hon. Virginia coloured with pleasure. Surely, he thought, she ought to disapprove of Perlmann, and yet here she was, clearly enjoying his attentions. It was true that the man was an outsider – not ‘one of us’ – but he’d done well for himself, hadn’t he? And done it at the expense of the very people she was trying to help. She obviously found his brashness exciting.

  A commotion in the doorway made them all look round. Stratton saw a chap in his twenties, dressed in scruffy, paint-splashed clothing and waving a champagne bottle which he appeared to have swiped from a waiter. Flanking him were two black men of a similar age, one of whom looked distinctly uncomfortable. Seeing them, the Hon. Virginia gave a little jump as though she’d just been goosed and murmuring ‘Do excuse me’, set off towards them.

  ‘Michael Duffy. He’s Viscount Standon’s son, but,’ Perlmann rolled his eyes, ‘he plays at being an artist. I’d buy one of his paintings myself, but …’ He waved a dismissive hand.

  ‘No good?’

  ‘Always the same – naked men. If they were women, that would be a different matter. And his clothes …’ Perlmann looked repulsed. ‘I don’t understand this. When he has such a birthright – to be a lord, when his father dies! He should be proud of it, not …’ Perlmann shook his head, then gestured as though he were throwing handfuls of something into the air, ‘Pff! To wear rags and live like a peasant …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Stratton, ‘he’s trying to shock.’

  ‘But why? What does he have to prove? Any bastard can live in a slum!’ For a second Stratton glimpsed the raw edge of a genuine, long-held anger, and then it was smoothed over as Perlmann shrugged and said affably, ‘But I know his father – we do some business – so every so often Michael comes here, and sometimes he brings his friends. Why not?’

  ‘Mrs Rutherford seems quite taken with him.’

  �
��Ach, it’s the schwartzers she likes.’

  Stratton watched as the Hon. Virginia drew the black men aside. One of them was dressed in a flashy suit and jazzy tie. He seemed to be at ease and enjoying himself. The other, whose complexion was several shades paler, appeared to be hanging back rather, and wore clothes that were quietly smart, as if, Stratton thought, he were trying to merge into the background. He and Perlmann were too far away to hear what the Hon. Virginia was saying to the pair of them, but she was delivering it in a manner that was almost grotesquely coquettish.

  ‘Do you know them?’

  Perlmann shrugged. ‘Could be anybody. I don’t mind – I take people as they come. You see that?’ He laughed. ‘What can you expect? Her husband can’t be bothered with her.’ He gestured towards Rutherford, who was thoroughly occupied in flirting with a very attractive blonde. ‘He married her for her money, I think. I like Virginia. She is a nice woman but unfortunately she is one of these English upper-class ladies who look like a horse dressed in curtains.’

  This was such an accurate description that Stratton laughed in spite of himself.

  ‘Ah – you agree? But a very nice horse. A thoroughbred, naturally – the daughter of a viscount. I tell you something, Inspector, when I first came to this country I couldn’t understand a word of English. Stefan, he also couldn’t understand, so we learnt as quick as we could … But when we reached London, we couldn’t understand the Cockneys because they don’t pronounce any consonants, and we couldn’t understand the smart people because they don’t pronounce anything else. Only the people in the middle. Stefan and I, we still joke about this.’

  ‘I often have difficulty with the smart people myself,’ said Stratton. ‘Is Mrs Perlmann here? I should like to meet her. And Mrs Laskier, of course,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘I named this club after my wife,’ said Perlmann, ‘but she prefers to spend her time at home.’ He shrugged. ‘Different interests, you know? And Lola’s not here now.’ His face seemed to close up as he said this, and Stratton had the impression of a shutter coming down.