A Capital Crime

by Laura Wilson

  At least he was doing something. After the hostel, he’d go to West End Central and see if there was any message from Ballard about the girl in Clapham. Bound to set the cat amongst the pigeons, turning up when it wasn’t his shift, but he could always make out it was something to do with the Backhouse case. As long as Lamb didn’t get wind of it and start asking awkward questions … Walking fast in the direction of Victoria, keeping his eyes peeled for a passing taxi, he found himself wondering what his own father would have done in such a situation. He imagined the taciturn old farmer towering over the culprit, a shotgun jammed in his ribs until an early wedding was agreed upon. Except his father had had only sons – himself and two older brothers – and Benson was already married. He could just hear the wretched man bleating about his reputation … But film stars got divorced all the time, didn’t they? In Hollywood, anyway. They weren’t the same as normal people. But Benson might have children as well – they weren’t to blame, and neither was his wife.

  Eventually, he managed to flag down a taxi which took him to Victoria Station. Unsure of his bearings, he asked an elderly beggar whose face looked as though it had been under a harrow where to find the women’s hostel.

  ‘Down there, guv, on the right. Spare any change?’

  Stratton gave him the price of a cup of tea and hurried off. The hostel was a squat, two-storey brick dwelling standing alone in the middle of a vast bombsite. In the windowless lobby, Stratton identified himself to a hard-faced woman of military bearing who sat, formidably, behind a wire grille. Unshaded, the single electric bulb gave her face a greenish cast, as if she were beginning to decompose, and behind her head, a series of metal rings hung like bizarre decorations, from lengths of coarse string. Halfway up a flight of stairs on the right, a stooped woman with an iron caliper on one leg pushed a mop backwards and forwards, punctuating their conversation with clanging noises whenever her metal support came into contact with the pail.

  ‘Carleton?’ The woman in the cage ran her finger down a list of names in a ledger. ‘Yes, last night. Policeman brought her in.’

  ‘Do you know where from?’

  The woman drummed her fingers on the ledger for a moment, trying to remember. ‘Oh, yes. Fur coat. Not our usual type at all. Quite confused – in fact, PC Eliot thought she might have lost her memory. Told me she’d showed him a picture of a man in the paper and said he was her husband and he’d died and she’d only found out when she’d read about it. We weren’t even sure that Carleton was her real name. Well,’ she added, defensively, ‘it doesn’t sound very likely, does it?’

  ‘Maybe not, but it is her name. Where did PC Eliot find her, do you know?’

  ‘One of the squares near the station. That’s his beat – he often brings women in here. He said she didn’t seem to know where she was.’

  ‘I see. And she hasn’t come back?’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Mind you, if she’s still …’ she tapped her temple, ‘we’ll probably get her back. Is she wanted for something?’

  ‘Only information. We think she may know about a missing person.’

  After telling the woman to contact West End Central if Diana did return, Stratton returned to Victoria Station and telephoned to Ballard from a public box. When the sergeant’s wife, an expolicewoman remembered by Stratton with affection, reported that he had not yet returned, he put another tuppence in the slot and telephoned Doris.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ted. She’s not been in touch.’

  ‘Oh, Christ … Sorry, Doris, I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘Listen, Ted – Don’s just come in. He wants to know if there’s anything he can do to help.’

  ‘It’s very kind of him, but I can’t think of anything at the moment … That girl Madeleine mentioned, I’ve managed to run her down and my sergeant’s gone round to talk to her, but beyond that, I really don’t know what to do. I’m just so …’ Words failing him, Stratton started on another tack. ‘I’m trying to find the other person Madeleine mentioned – I don’t think it can be her but it’s worth a go, and now I’m here …’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Victoria Station. Look, I’d better go.’

  ‘Ted, please … I know it sounds stupid, but try not to worry. Monica’s always been a sensible girl. I’m sure she won’t do anything … you know …’

  Doris clearly didn’t know what to say, either, and Stratton couldn’t blame her. Hopelessly, he scanned the faces of the people who passed him, the echoing noise of their heels quickly swallowed up by a cacophony of steam engines, whistles and porters trundling luggage trolleys. A needle in a haystack, a pebble on a beach … Why would Monica be in a bloody station, for God’s sake? He’d go round to the local police and see if PC Eliot could shed any light on Diana’s possible whereabouts. As he’d told Doris, he didn’t really think it likely that Diana could be the ‘friend’ but, in the absence of any information from Ballard, he had to do something useful. Anything was better than going home and doing nothing.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Diana felt as though she were in a dream. The man in the park had appeared out of the mist like an omen – as if, somehow, James had sent him to her. Unprepossessing and shabby, certainly, and rather odd, but he sounded respectable enough – and he was there, wasn’t he? Besides, what else did she have to do?

  He’d offered to buy her a cup of tea, and they’d walked back towards Victoria Station, with him carrying her suitcase. He’d told her, in a husky whisper for which he’d apologised, explaining that his vocal cords had been damaged by gas in the Great War, that his name was Davies. ‘I’m just passing the time,’ he said. ‘Since my wife died, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. I’m waiting for my unemployment cards to come through, then I’ll look for a job.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Diana. ‘It must be lonely.’

  ‘Yes. But she’d had a long illness. I looked after her, you see – that’s why I wasn’t working. It was a mercy, really – terrible suffering, so hard to watch …’

  ‘It must have been dreadful for you.’

  ‘It was. She was one in a million …’ Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he pulled out a pair of earrings and offered them to her. ‘Would you like these?’ They were cheap, screw-on things of the sort one might buy in Woolworth’s, with a large blue stone set in a circle of smaller white ones.

  Taken aback, Diana said, ‘It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly … Did they belong to your wife?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve been carrying them about. I often carry something of hers, to keep her near me. Are you married?’

  ‘Yes. Or rather …’ And she’d found herself telling him all about James, and what had happened.

  ‘Very regrettable. I suppose, with him being in the pictures, it’s the sort of thing … oh, dear.’ He shook his head several times, then said, ‘How are you off for money? I could give you a pound.’

  ‘No, really,’ said Diana. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Well, how are you going to manage?’

  ‘I need to find out about James. I suppose I ought to go to the police.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Well, to find out what’s happened about the body, and so on.’

  ‘Yes …’ murmured Mr Davies, vaguely, and then, with some pride, ‘I could have helped your husband, you know.’

  ‘Helped him?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I used to be a doctor, you see. Before the war. That’s why I could look after Edna – my wife – because I know about health matters. Anyone else, of course, and she’d have had to go to hospital, but I know what to do.’

  ‘Were you really a doctor?’ She must have sounded more sceptical than she intended, because he said seriously, ‘Oh, yes. I trained as a doctor, but I was struck off the Medical Register for helping a friend.’

  ‘Helping?’

  He gave her a knowing look. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what it was for.’

  They’d had tea in a café round the corner fr
om the hostel where she’d spent the night, which was full of workmen having breakfast and indulging in cheerfully crude banter with its slovenly proprietress. ‘Not really the type of person I’m used to associating with,’ murmured Mr Davies, as they took the last available table. ‘Or yourself, I should imagine.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ said Diana, when she’d drunk her tea, ‘but really, I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’

  Mr Davies looked flustered. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Well, the police. I—’

  ‘Police?’ he said, sharply.

  ‘About James. I was hoping they could tell me where—’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to do that yet. They won’t be able to find out anything about your husband until all the tests have been done.’

  ‘What tests?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, professorially, ‘when somebody dies, and it’s not expected, they have to do all sorts of tests … on the body, you see.’

  ‘But he was hit by a car. That’s what killed him.’

  ‘All the same, they have to take extra care. Medical negligence, you know – very serious. They’re not allowed to give out information to anyone until it’s all been done.’

  ‘Not even to the next of kin?’

  Mr Davies shook his head. ‘Those are the rules. It’s very strict. When I was in the police—’

  ‘Police? You said you were a doctor.’

  ‘Oh, no …’ Mr Davies chuckled. ‘This was later, during the war. We did a lot of that sort of thing with bodies that were found. It was always very thorough.’ He gazed into the middle distance for a moment, caught up in some memory of his own, then said, ‘So there’s no hurry. Why don’t you have something to eat?’

  With no breakfast and very little to eat on the previous day, Diana’s stomach had been rumbling ever since they’d entered the place, and, after only a token demurral, she agreed. While she ate, Mr Davies told her stories about his time in the police, about criminals he’d caught and people he’d followed – even, apparently, in his free time – and the commendations he’d been given on two occasions. She was conscious, as he spoke, that there was a lack of focus about his conversation, its clarity and direction coming and going like a faulty wireless signal. Every so often, he would stop and look round the room as if searching for something. ‘They wanted me to stay on,’ he finished, ‘but I couldn’t because of my health. I was in a car accident myself, you know, before the war. That was why I had to stop training as a doctor. It was a pretty bad injury. Caused a lot of problems for me later on.’

  ‘But you said you’d been struck off the medical register.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, vaguely. ‘Struck off … That’s right.’

  ‘So …’ Diana gave it up and concentrated on her food. Why did it matter what this strange, creepy little man said? He’d bought her a meal, hadn’t he? The least she could do in return was to listen politely until she could, reasonably and without giving offence, leave. She wasn’t entirely sure that she believed all the business about the police not releasing any information to anyone before the post-mortem was completed – why shouldn’t they be allowed to tell her where his body was, for heaven’s sake? Anyway, she’d soon find out for herself whether it was true.

  Now, he was pushing an item cut from a newspaper across the table. ‘I was a witness in that case,’ he said. ‘For the prosecution. Three, four years ago. Perhaps you remember?’ Diana read the headline: BODIES ON HIS HANDS.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Diana. ‘What happened?’ She put out a hand to take the scrap of paper, but Mr Davies jerked it away from her in the manner of someone teasing a dog and tucked it back into his jacket pocket.

  ‘It was all a long time ago,’ he said. ‘Mind you, it was quite a thing at the time. Yes …’ He glanced round the café, repeating, ‘quite a thing …’ and then, with startling suddenness, reached out and took hold of her hand, so that she dropped her fork on the plate with a clatter.

  Odd, Diana thought. He looks the type to have clammy hands, but his touch was warm and dry – not unpleasant, in fact, save for the fact that she didn’t want him holding her hand in the first place. ‘I’ve got other things,’ he said in an urgent tone. ‘Clothes and shoes. Jewellery … All a bit old-fashioned, I suppose, but good quality. You could have it. And you could come and stay with me. I’d have to lock the doors because I wouldn’t want the coloureds upstairs to know I had a lady living with me … Dirty lot, always making a noise, and I’m afraid,’ here, he lowered his whispery voice so that it became almost inaudible and Diana had to lean forward to hear him, ‘there’s the matter of sharing a lavatory. I’ve written to the council to try and get them out. Edna – my wife – was terrified of them. But you could come …’

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Diana, gently withdrawing her hand, ‘but I couldn’t possibly impose. I’ll go back to the hostel.’

  Mr Davies contemplated her, his head on one side, making the strange movement with his mouth that she’d noticed when she’d first seen him. He really is creepy, she thought, with an inward shudder. ‘They won’t miss you, you know.’

  ‘Miss me? What do you mean?’

  ‘If you don’t go back. It won’t matter.’

  ‘I know that, but—’

  ‘I’m going to Birmingham soon. You could come with me.’

  ‘Really, I don’t think … I mean …’

  ‘We could live together.’

  Diana stared at him, asking herself, with a sort of miserable wonder, why on earth she was having this ridiculous conversation. It was, she supposed, just another measure of how out of kilter her life had become.

  ‘I’ve got a job. They’re putting me in charge of a firm of long-distance lorry drivers.’

  ‘I thought you were waiting for your cards.’

  ‘Oh …’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘That’s just a formality. They’ve been wanting me to work for them for a long time. With my sort of expertise, you know …’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be wonderful,’ said Diana. ‘Now I really must—’

  He caught her wrist as she began to stand up, making her sit back down with a bump. ‘Where are you going? I told you, the police won’t be able to help.’

  ‘Yes, you said. Please let go of me.’

  ‘Oh …’ Mr Davies looked down at his hand as if it had taken on a life of its own, and removed it from Diana’s arm.

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she said pleasantly, rising again. ‘Now, I really must go.’ In the last few minutes, something had seemed to click in her brain and she felt a new impetus: survival. A host of possibilities raced through her mind. If she pawned some of the clothes in her suitcase she’d be able to get enough money for another night at the hostel and a meal, and then she’d leave the case at Victoria Station and find a library so that she could read the papers and see if there was any more about James. That would help her when she went to the police, and she could have a look for a job at the same time. She’d find out the address of the assistance board or whatever it was called – the librarian was bound to know – and surely they’d be able to help her when she explained her situation.

  ‘Why don’t we meet again this evening?’ said Mr Davies. ‘We could have a meal. There’s a nice place down there,’ he waved a hand in the direction of the station. ‘Much better than this.’

  With no intention of showing up, Diana agreed in order to be able to leave without more fuss, and they fixed on eight o’clock at a café nearby.

  Dismayed at the small amount given her by the dismissive pawnshop owner in exchange for her silk blouses and dressing gown, and exhausted after her poor night’s sleep, Diana dropped off over the newspapers in the library. The surprisingly kindly librarian let her be – ‘I thought you looked all in, dear’ – and she awoke over an hour later, her face streaked with tears. The librarian had been very helpful about the assistance board, but when Diana got there she discovered that she could not be seen withou
t an appointment, and the soonest she could speak to anyone was in two days’ time.

  Hungry once more, and realising that the pawnshop money would not, after all, cover a meal as well as the night’s lodging, Diana resigned herself to another dose of Mr Davies’s company. Although, she said to herself, if he thinks he’s getting anything else out of me than a dining companion, he’s got another think coming … And she could go to the police station first thing in the morning.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Monica stared at the flaking paint of the front door of number three. Tregarth Row was a narrow, poorly lit alley with slippery cobblestones and four or five meagre houses huddled abjectly together, as if for warmth.

  It had taken all her courage to get this far. Now she had to steel herself to knock on the door. You have to do this, she told herself. You have no choice.

  She turned and looked back towards the main road. No-one must see her going in … Not that anyone would know who she was, but if they lived nearby, they would surely guess why she was there. And the longer she stood outside, the greater her risk of being seen.

  Resolved, and closing her mind as best she could to all thoughts of what was going to happen to her, she raised her hand and rapped on the door.