by Laura Wilson
‘Yes,’ said Stratton. ‘We’ve found him.’
‘Can I see him? Is he all right?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Stratton, ‘I could come in for a minute?’
‘He’s not hurt, is he?’ She stood back from the door.
‘No, he’s not.’ Stratton removed a brimming ashtray and a pile of magazines from one of the armchairs and indicated that Gloria should sit down, taking a hard chair for himself. ‘He’s been arrested. Before you say anything, it wasn’t for the murder of Virginia Rutherford. At least, not yet.’
‘You mean you’re going to charge him? Fit him up? Is that what you’ve come here to tell me?’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘Then what did you want to arrest him for?’
‘If you’ll just listen to me, Gloria, and keep quiet, I’ll explain.’
*
Five minutes later, after Stratton had given a potted version of the events at Maxine’s, Gloria, now huddled on the edge of her seat, stared at him in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you, Gloria?’
‘No. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘I have to confess,’ said Stratton, ‘that it didn’t make all that much sense to me at the time. It’s hard to think straight when someone’s pointing a gun at your head. As I told you, we – the police, that is – had gone to the nightclub for reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, so we were as surprised to find him there as he was to see us. He was desperate all right, no doubt about that. You’d have to be desperate to wave a gun and demand money and a getaway car, wouldn’t you?’
Gloria nodded, her mouth slightly open. She looked as though she’d been struck dumb.
‘But when I thought about it afterwards, and remembered what Etheridge had actually said to me, I suddenly realised what must have happened. You see, Gloria, he said that he thought we were going to fit him up for the murder of the woman at the party. Now, if he’s innocent – which is something you seem very sure about – then how did he know about the murder in the first place?’
Gloria’s eyes flicked around the room, as if she might find an answer there, and then, having glanced down at the magazines by her feet, said, ‘It was in the papers.’
‘No it wasn’t. My guv’nor made sure of that.’
‘Well, I found out, didn’t I? Someone must have told him, same as they told me.’
‘I don’t think so, Gloria. You gave me a story about how some friend of yours told you that another friend of yours had seen the body out of the window, which I took at face value because at the time there was no reason for me not to believe it.’
‘It’s true!’
‘Does your friend happen to have X-ray vision?’
‘What you talking about?’
‘The gardens in Colville Road may not be up to much,’ said Stratton, ‘but they do have quite a few trees. When – or rather, if – we manage to find your friend, we’ll test the view from her window, but something tells me we’re not going to see very much apart from leaves. What’s her name, this friend?’
‘I don’t know. She’s just this girl I see around sometimes. I can’t remember everything.’
‘But you do remember quite a lot about what happened at the party. At least, you did yesterday. If I remember rightly, you were very keen to give me a full account of the proceedings – except, of course, for the bit about how you knew about the death of the Honourable Virginia Rutherford. And I’m as certain as I can be that the person you described arguing with her in the garden was her husband.’
‘Well, why don’t you have a go at him, then?’
‘Don’t worry, we’ve been talking to him. But right now, I’m talking to you, and I want to know how you knew about Mrs Rutherford, because I think that you were the person who told Etheridge.’
‘How could I? I told you, I never saw him. I went to the hospital, then I come back here.’
‘You told me that you went looking for him and you met your friend in an all-night caff on Westbourne Park Road called Dot’s.’
Gloria blinked at him. ‘Oh,’ she said, in a rush, ‘I’m getting confused now. Of course I did.’
‘I came here by taxi,’ said Stratton. ‘The driver told me he knew Dot’s Cafe – a lot of cabbies use it, apparently. They’ve got to know Dot quite well over the years, which is why they all know that she always goes down to Brighton over the August Bank Holiday, to visit her sister – and that’s why the place closed on Thursday and won’t reopen until the day after tomorrow. I’m surprised you didn’t know that yourself – or perhaps, in all the excitement, you just forgot.’ Gloria didn’t say anything, but her face told him he was spot on with the last bit. ‘You lied to me,’ Stratton said. ‘And I think you’re lying about telling Etheridge too.’
‘I’m not. All right, I did lie about the first bit, but not about Etheridge. You saw me, I was worried sick.’
‘Yes, you were. Worried sick. And you should be now, because if you didn’t tell Etheridge about Mrs Rutherford, then he must have known because he was the one who killed her. After all, you told me he disappeared, didn’t you? When you were telling me about all this on Sunday, you made it sound as if the two people standing outside the back door – Mr and Mrs Rutherford – walked further into the garden after you and Etheridge had finished arguing. You said …’ Stratton checked his notebook, ‘that two people came past you and you thought it was them. But that wasn’t right, was it?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark … I couldn’t see.’
‘You see, we know that Mr Rutherford wasn’t in the garden when the explosion took place, because we have a witness – who also happens to be a Member of Parliament – who says that he was inside the house, talking to Rutherford, a few minutes before it happened. Which leaves us with Etheridge. And I think, when Mrs Rutherford went past you, that he followed her. I imagine he realised that she must have heard you screaming about how the money you’d earned on your back had bought his clothes and rings. He wanted to reassure her and she wasn’t having it, and he lost his head.’
‘No …’ Gloria shook her head frantically. ‘That’s not what happened … It wasn’t like that.’
‘Oh, I think it was. Whatever else Etheridge may be, he isn’t stupid. He’d know damn well that a woman like Mrs Rutherford would be shocked to realise that the man she was trying to help wasn’t just some poor unfortunate with the cards stacked against him, but a criminal living off your immoral earnings. She wouldn’t have minded about any of the others. In fact, she probably got rather a thrill out of being in the same room … But not Etheridge, and he knew it. That’s why he didn’t want you anywhere near the place. You see, Etheridge was Virginia Rutherford’s special project. She saw him as a “Community leader” – she told me that herself. But after she’d heard you saying all that, well … And all those other people Etheridge wanted to impress, the councillors, the MPs, the rich friends – she’d tell them, wouldn’t she? That’s why he went after her. I don’t suppose that he meant to kill her, but he’s impulsive, isn’t he? I saw that with my own eyes at the nightclub. Perhaps he tries to put his arms around her and she pushes him away. Perhaps—’
‘No! It didn’t happen like that!’
‘Then how did it happen, Gloria?’
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
‘It was me who told Clinton about Mrs Rutherford. When I came back from the hospital, he was sitting here waiting for me. I said the same as I told you, about going to the cafe and all that. He said he’d be blamed for it – talked about how you’d come to the club and seen the two of them together, and how you were bound to think it was him. He begged me to help him – that’s why I telephoned the police station yesterday and pretended I hadn’t seen him. I wanted him to stay, but he wouldn’t. I don’t think he had any idea of where he was going to go or what he was going to do. He just said he’d find a place and then he’d write to me. That’s the truth.’
‘And the party?’
>
‘It was like I said, I did hear Mrs Rutherford arguing with that man – the one you said was her husband – and me and Clinton had a row too, in the garden. Clinton went back in the house afterwards, but I stayed put. I didn’t believe a word he’d said. I’d had a few drinks, like I told you, and I was so angry I wanted to kill him, but at the same time I’m telling myself, come on, girl, not here … you’ve got to have a bit of pride, haven’t you? And I could see her – Mrs Rutherford – standing in the doorway – and I thought, well, I’m not giving you the satisfaction, you cow.’
‘In the doorway? Was she by herself?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about before? Did Eth— did Clinton say anything to her?’
‘I don’t know. My ankle was killing me where I twisted it and my shoe’s come off, so I’m trying to find that … Next time I looked, there she was – the bloke with her must have gone inside by then. Like I said, I didn’t want nothing to do with her so I look round and I can just see there’s a hole in the fence, so I thought I’ll nip through there and come back when she’s gone, because I had this idea she was looking for me.’
‘Why did you think that?’
‘Well, she must have heard us, mustn’t she? I could see her in the doorway, and she’d got her face pushed forward, like that,’ Gloria hunched her shoulders and peered at him. ‘Anyway, I was right because I’ve gone towards the hole in the fence, and I hear her come after me.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘Wasn’t much I could do, was there? I get through the hole, and I can’t see a bloody thing, so the next I know I’ve tripped over and I’m being stung by these nettles, and I can hear her right behind me … And then she says, “Gloria, I’d like to talk to you.” I told her to piss off but she wouldn’t. I’m trying to pick myself up and now I’ve lost my bag and she’s standing there, going on about how she can help Clinton and how she knows it’s not my fault but surely I realise that if he stays with me he won’t make anything of himself and perhaps she can help me too, find me a job or something. I said, “What job’s that, then? Scrubbing the floor like my mum? Don’t tell me about work – you never worked a day in your life.” Then she starts on about she knows how hard it must be for me and all of this … I said, “You don’t know nothing about me, and I don’t want your shitty job. I want you to leave me alone.” And she says,’ here, Gloria broke into a plummy squeal, ‘ “But I’m trying to help you, Gloria.” I said, “Well, I don’t want your help, but I know what you want, all right, so why don’t you just come out and say so? I’m sure Clinton’ll give you one if you pay him enough.” Well, I’m on my feet by this time, and she catches me by the arm and says, “Oh my dear, it isn’t like that at all,” and I’m telling her to get off but she won’t so I give her a shove and there’s all these bricks lying there so she falls back and she’s still got hold of me and we both end up on the ground.’
‘And then?’
‘She wouldn’t let me go … Just kept going on about Clinton and how she wanted to help him. She’s trying to hold onto my wrists and we’re sort of wrestling, pushing against each other, but it’s like I’m fighting with a giant or something. Then she says to me, “What you’re offering him isn’t love.” I said, “What do you know about it? You’re like a bitch on heat for him,” and I give a big heave to try and make her let go. She sort of goes sideways and I think she must of hit her head or something because suddenly she’s pushing me right over and I’m on my back and she’s on top of me. She’s squashing my chest so I can’t breathe and now I’m really panicking and I don’t know what to do, so I just grab one of the bricks and I … I just wanted her to get off me, that’s all. I mean, I was angry, and her talking to me like that, all those lies about helping me when she just wanted Clinton for herself, but it wasn’t deliberate …’
‘Did you realise she was dead?’
‘I suppose I must have done or I wouldn’t have told Clinton, but I don’t remember thinking that, not at the time. Then there’s this bang behind me and it feels like the whole world’s exploded and I’m thrown back down on the ground. I look round and I can see all the smoke and hear people screaming. All I could think about then was Clinton, if he was in there, and the next thing I know I’m in the house and that lady’s there and she’s trying to get me to come out and I’m trying to find Clinton and I don’t know what’s happening or what I’m doing …’ Gloria bowed her head and shook it slowly in silent misery.
‘It’s all right, Gloria,’ said Stratton gently. ‘I understand.’
She jerked her head up and stared at him for a moment as if trying to get him into focus. ‘No you don’t.’ Her voice was flat, her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve no bloody idea. None of you.’
No, I don’t understand, thought Stratton. Not her, nor Etheridge, nor Laskier, nor anybody, really, who isn’t like me. That’s the whole problem: nobody does. Not even when we try.
THREE MONTHS LATER
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
‘Rutherford’ll appeal, of course. Conspiracy’s always a tricky one, and it’s Knight’s word against his. Have you seen this lot?’ Matheson waved a hand at a stack of newspapers on his desk. The News of the World was on top, with the headline: A New Era in Motoring.
‘The Preston Bypass?’ asked Stratton.
‘Inside page. They’ve really gone to town on Perlmann after what Rutherford said in court.’
‘Well, Perlmann’s not here to defend himself, is he? Unlike Rutherford, and he made it sound as if Perlmann had hypnotised him into ordering the petrol-bombing.’ Stratton opened the paper and found himself looking at a large photograph of Perlmann wearing dark glasses and looking like a gangster and captioned ‘Millionaire slum landlord’. Skimming the paragraphs underneath, his eye picked out ‘fleet of Rolls-Royces … fond of cigars … grotesque appearance … brutal methods … lead piping … drugs … began his rise to notoriety working for the Messina Brothers, who operated a vice ring in Soho during and after the war …’
‘Perlmann employed bands of thugs,’ Stratton read aloud, ‘many of them fellow refugees from the German concentration camps, whose minds were so warped as to exclude emotions like mercy, decency and honour. Bloody hell. Even Rutherford didn’t say that in court, and he didn’t say anything about drugs or the Messina Brothers either.’
‘I don’t suppose they bothered to substantiate any of it,’ said Matheson. ‘After all, tenants’ rights – that’s not a story, is it? But now they can plaster April Scott all over the pages in her bathing suit, they’re raking up all the muck they can think of and claiming it’s a moral crusade. You know Etheridge has been offered money for his story by the Sunday Pictorial? They’re going to send a journalist to Pentonville to interview him.’
Stratton put the paper back on Matheson’s desk and sat down. ‘ “How I Stood Up to Evil Slum Landlord’,” he said. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if he claims that Perlmann was behind him holding up Laskier at the nightclub and shooting Walker. He’d probably claim that Perlmann, not Rutherford, put him up to killing Bert Hampton too – if he was ever going to admit to it, that is.’
‘Which he won’t,’ said Matheson. ‘After all, why should he? With no witnesses prepared to identify him – and God knows, it’s not as if you haven’t tried – I’m afraid we’re on a hiding to nothing. But whatever Etheridge does decide to tell the paper, there’s buggerall we can do about it. You know, it was only by sheer good luck that we managed to keep Mrs Rutherford’s death out of the press for as long as we did. If it hadn’t been for the fact that all the journalists were chasing around for stories about the riot, we’d have been scuppered.’
‘Yes, I know. But all the same …’
Matheson gave him a hawkish look. ‘No use crying over spilt milk. The Lockwood girl had a choice. She didn’t have to go on the streets, or take up with Etheridge – and she certainly didn’t have to bash Virginia Rutherford’s head in.’
Stratton sighed. ‘I know. I suppose it’
s just how it happened – fighting over a man who didn’t give two hoots for either of them.’
‘Women really are a race apart, Stratton. We’ll never begin to understand them.’
‘I’d never presume, sir.’ Recalling the slew of headlines about Gloria and Mrs Rutherford and all the coverage in the weeks before the trials of Halliwell, Knight and the others, he said, ‘The other thing you can say about this whole business – Johnson’s death and the riot and all the rest of it – is that at least it’s made the powers-that-be sit up and take a bit of notice. And the heavy sentences, of course. We’ve not had much trouble of that sort for a while now.’
Matheson eyed him gloomily. ‘I shouldn’t bank on a lasting peace if I were you. Let’s face it: with most people, they get a shock – mental, moral, whatever you choose to call it – when they catch a glimpse of something very unpleasant below the surface; that makes them feel shame, or guilt, or both, and that, in turn, makes them try to forget it as quickly as they can … But the unpleasant thing won’t go away just because people fight shy of addressing it. Quite the opposite, in fact. Mark my words, we’re going to see a hell of a lot more in the future.’
*
‘What I can’t understand,’ said Stratton, ‘is why Laskier hasn’t tried to put the record straight about Perlmann.’
Fenella looked up from the menu she was studying, ‘I’m sorry, Ted, I’m not not listening on purpose, I just can’t make head nor tail of this.’
‘The English things are on the next page, if you’d prefer.’ Fenella looked round at the red paper lanterns and the Chinese scenes painted on the wall in swooping calligraphic strokes. After quite a few meals with her in conventional restaurants, Stratton had chosen the place because, despite his initial caution about food poisoning and strange ingredients, he’d often enjoyed eating there when he’d been stationed at West End Central. ‘I thought it might be a bit of an adventure for you,’ he said, ‘but if you’d rather go somewhere else …’
