by Laura Wilson
‘That was the Tuesday, was it? The seventh?’
‘That’s right. Well, I got up, and she never took no notice, so I went straight out to work. I come in at about six thirty, and she went at me again about the money, so then I lost my temper and hit her in the face.’
‘How did you hit her?’
Davies’s face clouded, and the familiar bewildered expression came back for a moment before he said truculently, ‘I don’t know. I just hit her, didn’t I?’
‘Did you punch her, or hit her with the flat of your hand?’
‘My flat hand. I hit her, and she hit me back so I took this piece of rope I had from my van and strangled her with it.’ Davies looked at Stratton expectantly, as if hoping for approval.
‘What did you do then?’
Davies’s face clouded once again. ‘Then?’
‘Yes. After you killed her.’
‘I told you that,’ said Davies, irritably. ‘Don’t have to go into it again, do I?’
‘Yes.’ Stratton leant forward, arms on the table. ‘We need the details.’
‘Details?’ echoed Davies. ‘I just … I put her on the bed.’
‘Was the rope still round her neck at that point?’
‘I don’t know. I think so. I covered her with the eiderdown, see. Then I carried her down the stairs to Mr Gardiner’s flat, like I told you.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Half past ten, I think. Well, about that time.’
‘And then?’
‘I came back upstairs. Had to feed the baby, see? Then I put her to bed.’
‘And?’
‘Well, I had to wait, see? Till it was quiet. I sat in the kitchen and had a fag. I was waiting … Then I took her downstairs to the washhouse.’
‘How?’
‘I just told you,’ said Davies, impatiently. ‘I took her downstairs, through the back door and into the garden. I carried her.’
‘You wrapped up the body first.’
‘Wrapped it?’
‘In a tablecloth, Mr Davies.’
Davies blinked, and passed a hand across his face. ‘Yes …’
‘Was it your tablecloth?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it the one you saw in the Charge Room?’
‘It must have been … I took her downstairs when it was quiet.’
‘And you concealed her behind the boards in the washhouse?’
‘Yes. Concealed her.’
‘Under the sink?’
‘Yes.’
Stratton and Ballard exchanged glances. Davies was tiring visibly, and his defeated air made Stratton feel that if he suggested that the man had put his wife’s body in a hot air balloon, he’d agree to it in order to get them off his back. It wasn’t unusual, and they’d both seen it before, many times. ‘What did you do then?’ he asked.
The strain of extreme effort on his face, Davies said, ‘I locked the door.’
‘Of the washhouse?’
‘Yes, the washhouse. Then I went back upstairs. My baby was asleep then, so I went and laid on the bed until it was time to go to work. I made a feed of milk and cereal for Judy in the morning and gave it to her, then I changed her, and I went out to work. She was asleep when I come back. That was half past five.’
‘So Judy was alone all day?’
‘Yes. I fed her when I come in, and changed her. Then I sat with her in the kitchen. I had a cup of tea and a smoke. I made her another feed before I put her to bed, then I sat by the fire till I gone to bed. I don’t know what time … Midnight, I think it was. I got up at six—’
‘This was on Thursday?’
‘Yes, it must have been. Thursday. I fed the baby and changed her and put her clothes on, then I had a cup of tea and went to work.’
‘So the baby was on her own?’
‘I didn’t like it,’ said Davies, defensively, ‘but I had to, see? I wrapped her up,’ he added. ‘I put her back in her cot.’
‘And then?’
‘I done my day’s work, then I asked the guv’nor for money on my wages. He said what did I want it for, and I said to send to Muriel, so he asked me where she was and I said she’d gone to Bristol with the baby. He paid me the money but then he said he’d had enough of it—’
‘Enough of what?’
‘Me asking for money, he said. I was always asking before I done the work. He said I could come back tomorrow for my cards. I went home then. I didn’t know what to do, see?’
Davies’s face was creased, as if in pain, and Stratton could imagine the turmoil in his dull mind – caught like a rat in a trap, panicked and scrabbling for a way out – which had led to what surely must have been his next action. ‘Was that when you strangled the baby?’ he asked.
Davies blinked rapidly, holding back tears. ‘Yes. With my tie. She was in the cot, so I left her there and I went into the kitchen. I made a cup of tea. I was waiting, like before. I took her downstairs later and put her in the washhouse.’
‘What time was that?’
Davies looked at him with wet eyes. ‘I don’t know. It was later. Mr and Mrs Backhouse was asleep. I come back upstairs and lay down on my bed. Then I went to see a man to sell the furniture.’
‘This was the next morning?’
‘Yes, next morning. He come to my flat later, and offered me forty quid for the lot.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Mr Lorrimer. Got a shop in Ingersoll Road, see? He asked me why did I want to sell it, and I told him I was going to Bristol. I said I had a job up there. He said the driver would come for it on Monday. They took all the furniture and lino, and he paid me for it then, and I put my things in my suitcase and went to Paddington for the train.’
‘To Wales?’
Davies nodded. ‘I went to Cardiff, then I found a lift to Merthyr Vale.’
‘To your aunt?’
‘Yes …’ Davies slumped still further, pathetic and vanquished, his face, drained of colour, given a greenish cast by the harsh light of the naked bulb. ‘Now you know all what happened,’ he muttered.
Chapter Fifteen
At home in Tottenham, Stratton sat in his favourite armchair, slippers on his feet and the Daily Express in his lap, and wished he didn’t feel so tired. Not that he particularly wanted to read about the possible suspension of Marshall Aid to Europe, but he felt he had barely enough energy to drink his tea or have a smoke. Glancing at the cup and the ashtray on the small table beside him, he was reminded of Davies’s litany of domesticity punctuated by violence – wife- and child-killing with breaks in between for tea and fags. Honestly, the whole thing was like a gruesome real-life rendition of a Punch and Judy show. ‘That’s the way to do it,’ he murmured, opening his paper and shaking it into position in an attempt to convince himself that he did have the desire to read the bloody thing, otherwise why buy it in the first place?
‘What’s that, Dad?’ Stratton looked over the paper to see Monica standing in the doorway and was struck, as he often was when he saw his daughter, by how attractive she was. It wasn’t only her face and figure that made her lovely, he thought, but her animation and the way she presented herself. Now, she was carrying a slice of Victoria sponge on a plate. ‘One of the girls brought a cake to the studio – it was her birthday – and I saved my piece for you.’
Stratton, touched beyond measure as he always was by her small acts of kindness – so like Jenny – said, ‘Don’t be silly. It’s yours.’
‘No, really …’ Monica deposited the plate on the little table and flopped down on the sofa.
‘Well, at least have half.’
‘All right, then. You first.’
‘Had a nice day?’
‘Mmm … Busy. I spent most of it painting scratches.’
‘Scratches? Don’t they have a Works department for that sort of thing?’
Monica rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. ‘No, Dad. It was a scene – two girls having a scrap. Hair-pulling, fingernai
ls … a real cat-fight. One of them kept getting it wrong, so they had to do it again. Everyone says she’s the producer’s mistress and that’s the only reason she’s in it. I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s true, because she’s rotten.’ Before Stratton could register dismay that was only partly comical at such worldly sentiments so calmly uttered by his innocent child, Monica added, ‘I did my first bruise, too. It was a jolly good one, if I do say so myself. Just here.’ She tapped her left cheekbone.
‘Pleased with it, were they?’
‘Not half! Aren’t you going to eat your cake?’
‘All right, then.’ Stratton picked up the plate. ‘Bossyboots.’
‘I’m not!’
‘I know. I only said it to make you indignant.’
‘I’m not indignant!’
‘Yes, you are,’ said Stratton.
‘Ooh …’ Monica pursed her lips and picked up a magazine from the sofa.
‘Jolly good, this,’ said Stratton, through a mouthful of cake. ‘What’s for supper?’
‘Rabbit stew. At least, I think that’s what it is. Auntie Lilian left it.’
‘Ah.’ Stratton raised his eyebrows. Lilian’s cooking wasn’t a patch on Doris’s, but as her offerings were not only kindly meant but essential, he never complained. On the whole, he was grateful for the way in which his two sisters-in-law had taken over the domestic arrangements. His home might be shabby (wasn’t everybody’s, nowadays?), but, largely thanks to Lilian and Doris, it was comfortable and clean. Less appreciated were their efforts, in the past couple of years, to find him a wife. These had, so far, resulted in the unwanted attentions of a droopy but persistent widow, a fading but excruciatingly girlish spinster, and an ugly woman with a sniff whose husband, still listed as missing in action, had, in Stratton’s view, simply buggered off sharpish while he had the chance. Worse than all these, however, were the advances of another local widow, mercifully unencouraged by either Doris or Lilian on the grounds that they found her common. Over-rouged, with hands like grappling hooks, she had taken the opportunity, at a party the previous Christmas, of manoeuvring him beneath a bunch of mistletoe and, to his appalled amazement, making a grab for his scrotum, causing him to jump backwards and upset a tray of tea. The memory of it still made his toes curl, and he had avoided her ever since.
He could see that Doris and Lilian meant well – and that having him off their hands would make their lives a lot easier – but he wished they wouldn’t bother. He didn’t want to get married again. The pricks of anger and resentment at the sight of other couples that he’d felt for several months after Jenny’s death had given way to a numbness which still remained deep within him, so that it was impossible to contemplate that sort of intimacy with anyone else. He supposed that Doris might have a point when she said it was because he hadn’t met the right person, but he wasn’t at all sure whether there would ever be another ‘right person’, or even if he wanted there to be one.
‘Dad?’
‘Mmm? Oh … Sorry, love.’ Stratton held out the remains of the cake, but Monica shook her head.
‘Not that. I asked if you’d had a good day at work.’
‘Oh. You know. Tiring.’
‘It’s just that I thought you must be doing something important because you didn’t come back last night.’
‘Too much to do …’ Stratton hesitated, then said, ‘New case. Chap killed his wife and child.’
‘Oh, Dad!’ Monica looked stricken. ‘How horrible for you.’ She put the magazine aside and stood up. ‘It seems so … unfair … your having to do something like that.’
‘It’s the job, love.’
‘I know, but …’ Stratton knew what Monica was trying to say, but was glad she seemed unable to articulate it. Instead, she looked at his now empty cup and said, ‘Can I get you anything? More tea?’
‘I’m fine. I suppose you might put the supper on …’
‘All right.’ Monica stood looking down at him, obviously trying to think of something to cheer him up. ‘I think there might be some cocoa left. We could have it afterwards, if you like. And,’ she added, ‘why don’t you finish the cake? Silly for me to have it – there’s only a mouthful.’
Chapter Sixteen
Washing up after supper, Monica paid particular attention to her favourite plate, which was an old one, decorated in blue willow pattern. It wasn’t just that she liked the colour and design, but she also thought of it as being friendly, somehow, unlike the cracked yellow one, which was definitely unfriendly – spiteful, almost. One of these days, she supposed, they’d be able to get some new china, and then everything would match and washing up wouldn’t be the same at all. From childhood, she’d thought of everything in the house, from the largest items of furniture down to teaspoons and table mats, as having particular characters. It was a feeling – and not the only one, either – that, she strongly suspected, had persisted long after she ought to have grown out of it. If I were to tell anyone about these things, she thought, they’d say I was mad.
Having finished the drying up, she thought she ought to look in on Dad in the sitting room, just to see if he wanted anything, but he was fast asleep with the newspaper in his lap. He was obviously exhausted. Whatever he’d said about it just being his job, she still thought it was pretty unfair of them to give him a case where a man had killed his wife, after what had happened to Mum. It might have been five years ago, but all the same … She stood looking down at him for a moment, the sensation of fierce protectiveness welling inside her chest as it always did at such times, before going upstairs to her bedroom. A girl at the studio had lent her some fashion magazines to read – well, not read, exactly, because several of them were French, but look at – and she’d spent most of the day in happy expectation of a couple of hours by herself, immersed in a world of glamour and sophistication and colour. Not that there wasn’t plenty of that at work – she still couldn’t believe her luck in getting the job – but it certainly wasn’t much in evidence elsewhere …
Flopping down on her bed, she opened the first magazine and began working her way through pages of long-necked beauties with perfectly arched eyebrows, high cheekbones and expressions of serenely haughty composure, clad in gorgeous creations that, despite the ending of clothes rationing, you still couldn’t buy in the shops even if you did have the money. Stroking the swathes of shining material that gleamed from the pages like soft jewels, she imagined the texture of the cloth beneath her fingertips. Her fingers moved, seemingly of their own accord, from a gorgeous drape of satin to the model’s upper arm, and she found herself imagining how that might feel, were she to be touching it. It was quite impossible, of course, that she could ever find herself, in real life, stroking the skin of such a loftily beautiful woman, but all the same …
Her hand strayed to her own breast, and she stared down at the photograph, and then closed her eyes, imagining that the woman was touching her – and then the sound of a passing car recalled her, abruptly, to the present. She jumped, suddenly on fire with shame, and slapped the magazine shut. What was wrong with her? Other people didn’t have thoughts like that. She stared down at the magazine’s front cover where the model, chin raised, looked disdainfully away from her, as if in reproach. Whatever this feeling was, and its exact nature wasn’t something she could bear to dwell on in any specific detail, she knew for certain that it wasn’t – couldn’t possibly be – shared by anyone else, anywhere. Perhaps she really was mad. All the girls she knew talked about boys and got soppy over the male film stars. Her cousin Madeleine was always asking about the actors, what they were like and if they ever talked to her. She knew that Madeleine was disappointed by the lack of information and shared confidences, but, no matter how hard she tried, Monica could never think of anything interesting to say on the subject.
She used to think that her problem, like the silly business of believing that plates and cups had personalities, was to do with being young, and that, when she grew up, things would be stra
ightforward. But she was grown up, wasn’t she? She was twenty, with a proper job and everything, and the whole business of feelings seemed to be more complicated than ever.
She’d had boyfriends, for heaven’s sake – well, one boyfriend anyway, last year. And it wasn’t as if boys never asked her to come out with them, because they did, and fairly often. She didn’t particularly mind the things they tried to do, all the kissing and stuff – the thing was that she didn’t feel anything while they were doing it. It wasn’t horrible or frightening or anything like that, it just wasn’t … well, it wasn’t anything at all, really. Other girls, judging from their conversation, seemed actually to like it – or they said they did. She’d tried to persuade herself that she enjoyed it, too, but she didn’t. Not unless she was thinking of something else, anyway. Once or twice with Leonard she’d got quite passionate, but that was because she was imagining he was Lucy, the farmer’s daughter she’d been friendly with when she was evacuated in Suffolk. When he’d put his hand on her breast she’d imagined it was Lucy’s hand and things had got quite interesting for a bit, until Leonard had started talking to her and she couldn’t pretend any more.
Taking the magazines off the bed so that they wouldn’t get creased, she lay down on her back with her hands behind her head and stared up at the damp patch – also friendly, because it was crescent-shaped, like a smile – on the ceiling. Her future, in so far as she imagined it, had always involved – ideally – sharing a flat with another girl. And carrying on working at the studio, of course, either in Make-up or designing frocks – or perhaps even making special props, assuming they let women do that. It would be lovely if she could share a flat with Lucy, or someone like her … She’d liked being with Lucy so much – well, that was normal, because everyone enjoyed being with their friends, otherwise they wouldn’t be friends with them in the first place – but the peculiar hot feeling she’d had inside, the sort of pleasant mild ache that she’d thought, aged fifteen, must be the effect of too much sun, was, in retrospect, disturbing. It wasn’t until Madeleine had mentioned something similar, in connection with a boyfriend, that she’d realised that it was actually bad. Not bad like, say, Hitler, or even bad like her cousin Johnny, who’d stolen things and got involved with the wrong sort of people, but definitely wrong and not normal at all. At work, surrounded by half-dressed actresses in Make-up, so casual about their nakedness, she kept her eyes averted for fear that one of them might spot her staring. And supposing she were to betray, somehow, what was going through her mind, nobody would ever speak to her again and she would lose her job … She might even end up in a mental asylum.
