A Capital Crime

by Laura Wilson

  Still, you couldn’t blame the neighbours for coming to see what was going on. I’d be out here, too, if I lived next door, he thought, I’d want to see what the next turn-up would be. And that, he thought, as a police van pulled up in front of the goods yard wall and men in overalls began unloading spades, sieves and stacks of wooden boxes, was anybody’s guess.

  Scanning the crowd once more, he spotted, towards the back, an anxious-looking coloured couple who must be the ones from the top flat. Several feet away, a slatternly woman whose hair was quilted by metal curlers stood talking to a couple of solid-looking men in fawn mackintoshes. Coarse-faced, they had a brazen look about them which, in Stratton’s experience, meant one of two things. Either they sold stuff on commission or – far more likely in the circumstances – they were journalists. Well, they could whistle for it, because they weren’t getting a peep out of him.

  He looked past the crowd, down the short length of the street with its row of mean, bay-windowed front rooms surrounded by grimy brickwork. As the day started to draw in, a glum, grey pall seemed to shroud everything in view.

  ‘Paradise Street,’ said Ballard wryly. ‘Evidently someone’s idea of a joke.’

  ‘Ha-bloody-ha.’ Stratton was standing right beside the side pane of the smeary front window of number ten, and, as he spoke, he peered into it, almost expecting to see Backhouse’s face, bespectacled and ghostly, hovering behind the net curtain.

  To his left, he could hear the monotonous thrum of traffic and to his right, chugging and clanging from the railway tracks; the sounds of life continuing as normal. ‘It’s ordinary,’ he said. ‘Ordinary life in an ordinary street. I keep imagining him pottering around this house, brewing tea and taking bloody … kaolin and morphine for his diarrhoea, and all the time …’

  ‘Do you think Mrs Backhouse knew, sir?’

  ‘Back in nineteen fifty? She was very much under his thumb, so …’ Stratton shook his head wearily. ‘I just don’t know. The whole thing is just …’ Unable to think of a word that would accurately describe what it was, he illustrated it with a small, hopeless gesture.

  ‘Inspector, if I might just …’ Turning, he found himself confronting one of the journalists, who must have edged around the back of the crowd. Close to, he recognised the man as one who’d badgered him before, sidling up and offering to buy him a drink (or, as he put it, ‘a gargle’) on a number of occasions, always in the creepily confidential manner of a false friend. Now, the voice was goading, aggressively cheerful. ‘What about Davies now, Inspector? Still think he’s guilty?’ Revolted by the brutal breath and the predatory eyes, the man’s whole air of gorging himself on misery, Stratton said, ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘But surely, Inspector—’

  ‘Piss off.’ Stratton turned his back and, muttering, the man went to rejoin his colleague.

  He shouldn’t have said that – the man was bound to find some way of sticking the knife in … ‘Stupid,’ he said to Ballard. ‘You should never lose your temper with them.’

  ‘Quite understandable, sir, in the circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, but he won’t see it like that … It’s all very well for them,’ Stratton added, sourly. ‘For them it’s just the next sensation. Here and then gone, and they never have to worry about the consequences.’

  Ballard was staring past him down the street. ‘I think DCI Lamb is about to arrive, sir.’

  Following the sergeant’s gaze, Stratton saw the official car nosing its way round the corner. ‘That’s all we bloody need. I’d better go and meet him.’

  He’d assumed that Lamb would insist on arriving with a great fanfare of horn-honking, and was surprised when the car pulled up almost immediately and his superior emerged from the back seat unaided. Stratton, who was bracing himself for the full performance from righteous anger to bravely borne resignation, taking in disappointment and endeavouring to rise above it and Christ knew what else in between, reflected that at last there was no convenient surface for the forefinger-jabbing that always accompanied a high-grade bollocking. Unless – Stratton winced – Lamb was going to use his chest and prod him backwards down the length of the cul-de-sac. I’ll strangle him if he tries that, he thought savagely. I’ll put my hands round his neck and shake him till his eyes pop out, and then I’ll—

  ‘How many?’

  Stratton blinked. Lamb’s voice was so quiet it barely reached him, and he looked not only defeated but stupefied. Watching him, Stratton’s dismay and anger was transformed into the same intensity of amazement. It was as disconcerting as if a dummy had suddenly reached out a real, flesh-and-blood hand. ‘Sir?’

  ‘In the house – how many?’

  ‘Four, sir, so far. I’m fairly certain that at least one of them is one of our missing girls. It’s possible that the other two are there as well, but it’s a bit hard to tell at the moment … We also think that the fourth body – we found her under the bedroom floor – might be Edna Backhouse. They’re making a start on the garden now, sir. It’s the usual drill – removing soil to a depth of two feet and sieving for evidence. I don’t imagine they’ll be able to finish today, but we’ll station constables front and back overnight, and—’

  ‘This is a fucking shambles.’ Lamb shook his head in disbelief and Stratton, who had never heard his superior swear so harshly before, was as astonished by this as by finding himself entirely in sympathy with the man.

  ‘Right.’ Pulling himself together with a visible effort, Lamb said, ‘I suppose I’d better have a look.’

  ‘Yes, sir. This way.’

  ‘Any reporters yet?’

  ‘A couple, sir.’

  ‘For God’s sake don’t speak to them. I’ll have something sent out for tomorrow’s papers. If they persist, tell them to contact the station.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  Lamb was silent throughout the short tour, merely nodding at Stratton’s explanations. Finally, as they stood outside the washhouse, watching the team of men dig and sift in the garden, he said, in a tone of baffled wonder, ‘He was a special.’

  Stratton, feeling it would be inappropriate to offer condolences of the anyone-can-make-a-mistake variety, and uncomfortable with the memory of enjoying a quiet gloat about Lamb being hauled over the coals after Backhouse’s criminal record came out, settled for, ‘Well, he was commended, sir.’ He knew, even as he said it, that he should have kept his mouth shut, but Lamb didn’t appear to have heard. Instead, he was staring at one of the diggers, who was gesturing from the far corner of the garden.

  ‘Something here, sir. Could you take a look?’

  The digger was pointing to the corner where the rickety wooden planks of the back fence met the brick wall of the goods yard, and Stratton, approaching, saw something dirty white sticking out of the earth. Squatting down beside it, he saw that beneath the soil and grime was the smooth, rounded end of what looked like a thigh bone. Judging by its fleshless condition, it had been there for some time and it was, he thought, too large to belong to a cat or dog.

  ‘He must have been at it for quite some time, sir,’ said the digger. ‘This must have worked itself loose somehow or other, because he’s been using it to prop up this end of the fence.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  ‘Those women in the lavatory at Piccadilly,’ said Diana. ‘They thought I was one of them. A tart.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me what was happening, darling?’ Lally was sitting on the end of the bed, looking worried. ‘You were in such a dreadful state last night – a sort of faint. We didn’t know what to think … And the last time we saw you, you seemed so happy. I know that was some time ago, but I had no idea. I thought you were just … well, busy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lally. I didn’t mean to cause … you know. But I couldn’t tell you. You’ve been so kind to me. It wasn’t fair to keep on running to you for help, and I thought it would be disloyal to James.’ Diana lay back on the pillows. At some point the previous even
ing, Lally and Jock had returned and persuaded a reluctant Mrs Robinson to make up a bed for her. She’d been so exhausted that she scarcely remembered Lally leading her up the stairs and helping her into bed. Looking down, she saw that she was still wearing her underclothes. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I thought I could help him, but … He told me to leave him, Lally. I didn’t want to – or maybe I did. I don’t know any more. I’m just … just … It’s all such a failure. Guy, James, everything. My whole life. I should never have got married again – or not so quickly, anyway.’

  ‘I did wonder, when you told me you were going to marry him,’ said Lally. ‘But you seemed so in love and so sure and these things often do work, so …’ She made a face. ‘But you’re not hopeless, and it isn’t your fault. James’s drinking wasn’t your fault, and neither was the rest of it.’ Lally’s tone was sharp, and Diana was surprised to see that her face was white with tight-lipped anger. ‘It’s the way we were brought up. We weren’t taught to think for ourselves. Beauty, compliancy, complaisancy. . . That’s all that’s ever been expected. No useful skills and precious little education – beyond what we’ve managed to scrape for ourselves, that is. What the hell are you supposed to do if you’re a cross between a … a … brood mare and an ornament? Especially as half the men our generation of girls married – or were supposed to marry – were killed in the war, and all those big houses we were supposed to run have either been knocked down or sold off as boarding schools or something because nobody can afford to live in them any more.’

  Taken aback by her friend’s vehemence, Diana said, ‘It’s not that bad. And you seem to manage pretty well.’

  Lally shot her a rueful look. ‘Sorry. I suppose that was a bit about me. But not everything in the garden is roses, you know.’

  ‘Better than no garden at all. I was thinking about those things – what you just said – when I was up at Hambeyn Hall … You’ve put it much better. We’re dinosaurs, really, and it’s hard to be any different, no matter how much you want to. You’d think, with the war, one would adapt one’s thinking, but somehow one just goes back – behaves as if nothing had changed … Or perhaps that’s just me. God knows … Anyway, thank you, darling, for letting me stay.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Mrs Robinson doesn’t like me much, does she?’

  Lally grimaced. ‘I suppose she’s another kind of dinosaur – a Victorian one. Divorced women not allowed across the threshold … She’s been with Jock’s family for about five hundred years. But don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll manage to get round her somehow. Now, you look absolutely shattered, and I forbid you to set foot out of bed until you’ve revived a bit. When you’re better, Jock will take you to see your landlady and sort out the rent.’

  ‘Are you sure? I don’t know when I’ll be able to repay you.’

  ‘Don’t you get any money from Guy? I don’t mean to pay us back – you mustn’t worry about that – but to live on.’

  Diana shook her head. ‘I was getting a small allowance, but it stopped when James and I married. We ploughed what was left of my money into James’s projects, but none of them came to fruition, so … That’s it, really.’

  ‘What about James’s family?’

  ‘All dead. The close relatives, anyway. There are some others somewhere – abroad, I think, but I don’t see why they should help me. In any case, I hate the idea of leeching off people. I need to find a job.’

  ‘Well, what about the film studio?’

  ‘I doubt they’d have me back.’

  Lally frowned. ‘You won’t know until you try. I shan’t open the curtains – you need to rest. You can have a bath later.’

  ‘Thank you, Lally. I really am grateful.’

  ‘Listen, darling …’ Lally stood up. ‘It may feel like the end of the world, but it isn’t – not really. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again,” as Nanny used to say.’

  ‘Mine used to say, “Those who ask don’t get,”’ said Diana, glumly. ‘And she said, “You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself.” Or perhaps that was a different nanny. I had quite a procession of them. I was always told they wouldn’t stay because I was such a naughty little girl. It was only years later that I realised they’d all fled because Pa used to take liberties.’

  ‘My nanny was obviously a better philosopher than all of yours put together – and I’d have backed her against your Pa any day.’ Lally adopted an outraged tone, chin up and hands on hips. ‘None of your sauce, my man!’ Bending to smooth the bedclothes, she added, ‘I may have reconciled Mrs Robinson to your presence, but I certainly won’t be able to change her mind about the decadent implications of sitting on beds. Now then,’ she wagged her finger, ‘Good night, Sweet repose, Lie on your back, And not on your nose.’

  I’ve fallen flat on my nose, Diana thought when she’d gone. How shall I ever recover? Try, try again … To succeed at what? She stared up at the smooth white emptiness of the ceiling. The same as my future, she thought with dread: nothing there.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Waking with a start as the front door slammed, Stratton realised that he must have fallen asleep in the armchair. Stiff-necked and befuddled, with a foul taste in his mouth, it was a few seconds before he remembered: Pete’s dinner. Oh, hell. He’d meant to telephone Doris to apologise as soon as he got in, and he’d only sat down for a moment …

  What time was it? Past eleven. The footsteps in the kitchen were heavier than Monica’s, so it must be Pete. She must have come in already and gone upstairs to bed. Why hadn’t she woken him? The sitting room light was on, so she must have realised he was there.

  He was just about to get up and go through to the kitchen when Pete appeared, larger and beefier than ever. He was still in uniform with a bottle in his hand and a loose co-ordination to his movements which – together with his general air of beery belligerence – suggested that he was, if not actually drunk, then certainly well on the way.

  ‘Hello,’ said Stratton, cautiously. ‘Pete, I—’

  ‘Hello, Dad. Want one?’ Pete held up the bottle in one hand, and attempted to point to it with the other, but missed.

  Stratton, realising that he did very much want one, and deciding that it couldn’t make a bad situation worse, and might even help a bit, said evenly, ‘Yes, thanks.’

  Pete withdrew and, after some banging about, returned with a second bottle. Positioning himself once more in the doorway he lobbed it, underarm, at Stratton, who lunged forward and caught it just in time to field the bottle-opener that followed. ‘Steady on, old chap!’ Stratton placed both objects on the sideboard. ‘Why don’t you sit down? I’ll fetch a glass.’ Pete, he noted, hadn’t bothered with one, and was swigging straight from the bottle.

  He took a glass from the kitchen cupboard, then went into the scullery and splashed his face with water. Standing in front of the sink, wet hands resting on the wooden draining board either side of the porcelain rectangle, images crowded his mind: the bodies in the alcove, Davies’s face, the baby lying on the slab, the squalid terror of the women’s last moments … He shook his head violently and began to count to ten. Deal with the situation in hand. Pete was clearly in a dangerous mood. He must have been to the pub after leaving Doris’s, Stratton thought. All the guilt that formed the undertow of every thought he’d had about his son since Jenny died seemed to wrench itself upwards like a shipwreck breaking through to the surface: his preference for Monica; not loving Pete enough or even, in truth, liking him all that much; his utter failure to communicate with the lad …

  At least, he thought, he could go back in there and apologise properly for not being home – wait until they were both settled so that the words could be given – and, he hoped, received – with the weight and importance that was due. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his glass and returned to the sitting room.

  ‘Thought you weren’t coming back.’ Pete was slumped in ‘his’ armchair, legs outstretched, and Stratton noticed that he
’d almost finished his beer. Concealing a flash of irritation – you’re not in the bloody NAAFI now – he sat down opposite his son.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as you can see, I’m here.’

  Pete nodded as if confirming this fact and then, peering down at his feet as if from a very great height, bent forward so suddenly that he almost fell on the hearthrug and began unlacing his boots with a series of savage jerks. This done, he heeled them off, punted them in the direction of the empty fireplace and looked up at his father expectantly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Stratton. ‘I got held up at work. New case.’

  Pete waved a dismissive hand. ‘’S’all right, Dad.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But it was unavoidable and, as I said, I’m very sorry that I wasn’t there. Did you have a nice time?’

  ‘Uncle Reg bored us all stiff with a lot of guff about the Coronation, but the food wasn’t bad.’

  This would ordinarily, given the trouble that Doris must have gone to, have deserved a rebuke, but Stratton felt that this was neither the time nor the place. ‘Went down to the Swan after,’ Pete continued. ‘Some pals from school … One of them’s working in an abattoir, out Woodford way. Kept going on about how they kill the cows. Wouldn’t get off it. Even worse than listening to Uncle Reg.’

  ‘You should have asked him if he can’t get us a bit of meat off ration.’

  Ignoring this feeble attempt at levity, Pete said, ‘So, this case that kept you, this unavoidable case … What was it, then?’

  ‘You don’t want to hear about that.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ said Pete aggressively. ‘I want to hear all about it. Got to be more interesting than anything else I’ve heard this evening.’ Widening his eyes so that his face became a horrible parody of an eager child’s, he added, ‘Go on, Dad. Give us a bedtime story.’

  ‘All right, then …’ Stratton, thinking that actually enunciating the whole wretched business might help him clarify things a bit – and that, given the state of Pete, he’d be talking mainly to himself anyway – said, ‘Well, it started a few years ago, when—’