by Laura Wilson
‘Backhouse.’
‘Backhouse? He told me his name was Davies.’
‘Did he, indeed?’ said Stratton, grimly.
‘Yes. If I tell you about him, it might help to take your mind off things, at least until your sergeant’s got—’
A rap on the door heralded the desk sergeant. ‘Call for you, sir – Sergeant Ballard. Will you take it in the office?’
‘Sorry I’ve been so long, sir, but it was like pulling teeth. That girl was—’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Well, I managed to prise the information out of her eventually, and I told the Camden lot – they were at the place by the time I arrived and they’d talked to the woman. Turned out Monica had been there, but she’d changed her mind. The woman didn’t know where she’d gone – said she went out of the room and by the time she came back Monica had disappeared. I persuaded them to let her off with a warning, but they’ll be keeping an eye on her from now on. They’ve no idea it was a … a personal matter … so there’s no need to worry on that score. Do you think Monica might have gone home, sir?’
‘I’ll telephone my sister-in-law – she lives down the road from us, so somebody can keep an eye out. Where are you?’
‘Camden Town Police Station.’
‘You’d better get along home, then. Rather a lot’s been happening – we’ve got Backhouse.’
‘That is good news, sir. How—’
‘Tell you tomorrow. It was a fluke, really, but still …’
‘Ted? We’ve been frantic, trying to get hold of you – she’s here. Walked in about twenty minutes ago.’
‘Thank God for that. Is she all right?’
‘I don’t know about that. She’s exhausted, poor thing, but she’s safe, and that’s what matters.’
‘Yes … My sergeant tracked down that Anne girl Madeleine mentioned, and found out where she was going. Where is she now?’
‘I put her to bed on the couch and Madeleine’s getting her some hot milk.’
‘Can I talk to her?’
There was a moment’s hesitation, and Stratton could hear the sigh of his sister-in-law’s breath coming down the line. Then she said, ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ted. She’s upset enough as it is.’
‘I don’t want to upset her, just to tell her …’ Stratton ground to a halt, a lump the size of a boulder in his throat. There was a whole mountain of things that needed saying, and he had no idea where, or how, to start. There didn’t even seem to be words for most of it. ‘Give her my love,’ he said, finally. ‘Tell her to get some sleep, and I’ll see her tomorrow evening. And tell her that everything’s going to be all right, and I’m glad she’s home.’
Stratton replaced the receiver and sat back in his chair, weak with relief. He wanted to be with Monica now, to hug her and make her laugh and see her roll her eyes and say, in exasperated fondness, ‘Oh, Da-ad!’ and feel the unspoken bond between them like a tug on a wire that encircled his heart. At that moment, he felt an actual pain in his chest, although whether it was from emotion, release of tension, or merely slight indigestion, he couldn’t have said. He was going to be a grandfather. No good – that wasn’t, yet, comprehensible. He’d have to wait a bit for it to sink in – but, right at the moment, all that mattered was that his precious daughter was out of harm’s way. He sat, smiling foolishly into space, for several minutes, before the memory of Davies’s words, When I knew my daughter was dead I had nothing to live for, snapped him out of it as if cold water had been hurled in his face.
As he made his way back to the interview room, it occurred to him that he hadn’t said thank you to Ballard. No matter. Such things were better done face to face – and if that didn’t merit standing the man a drink, he didn’t know what did. And perhaps he could help Diana, too … Straightening his back and thrusting out his chest, he pushed open the door.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
‘Forgive me.’ Diana indicated the cigarette in her hand. ‘I took one from your packet. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all. I’ll join you.’ Grinning, Stratton sat down and lit one for himself.
Seeing his expression, Diana said, ‘Monica … It’s good news, is it? You’ve found her?’
‘Not me, my sergeant. She’s safe.’
‘So she didn’t …’
‘She changed her mind. She’s back home – that is, she’s at my sister-in-law’s.’
‘She told me about your poor wife. It must have been terrible for you.’ Diana gazed at him, eyes luminous with sympathy, and shook her head. ‘It’s … Well, one doesn’t know what to say, really.’
‘Yes …’ Stratton didn’t know what to say, either – he never had and knew he never would. It was yet another thing for which no words were adequate. Not wishing to pursue it, he produced his notebook and pencil and said, ‘Well, let’s get on with your statement, shall we?’
For a moment, Diana looked bewildered by his change of tack, then said, ‘Yes, yes, of course. But really, I don’t know how much help I can be.’
‘You’ve been a lot of help already,’ said Stratton. ‘I found Backhouse when I was looking for you. There has,’ he added gently, ‘been a nationwide hunt for him, you know.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t. I haven’t been reading the papers recently – at least, apart from the obituaries.’
‘I understand. Look … Diana. . .’ Her answering smile told him that using her Christian name was not only acceptable but desirable and, reassured, he continued, ‘When we’re finished, do you have anywhere to go? Eliot said you spent last night in a women’s hostel at Victoria.’
‘That’s right.’
Stratton made a sympathetic grimace. ‘Not very nice, I shouldn’t have thought. There must be somebody you can stay with,’ he said. ‘Someone who can help. If you give me a name, I’m sure we can arrange—’
‘I don’t think I can face going back there,’ said Diana in a small voice.
‘I’m not surprised. So, who should we telephone?’
‘It’s difficult. Lally – Mrs Anderson – she’s an old friend, but we’ve rather fallen out. My fault, of course – she and her husband have been very kind to me, and I’m afraid I’ve rather thrown it in their faces …’
Diana recounted the events of their night at Ciro’s. When she reached the part about meeting Claude Ventriss, Stratton felt a jolt of sheer rage shoot through him. ‘He spent the night at my flat,’ she said, miserably. ‘He’d gone when I woke up. He’d left me,’ she added, in a hard, self-mocking voice, ‘a five pound note but my landlady took it … Tell me, is that the going rate?’
Stratton stared at her, aghast. ‘Diana … But your husband … I don’t understand.’
‘James and I had already parted company,’ said Diana. ‘Thank you for not saying “I told you so”.’
‘I’d never … I mean, it’s not my business.’
‘I suppose not. But whatever you’re thinking about me, you’re right.’
Stratton began to deny this, but she cut him off. ‘I can see it in your face. I don’t blame you.’
‘We all make mistakes,’ said Stratton helplessly. ‘I do. Everyone does.’
‘Well, it’s fairly put the kibosh on my friendship with Lally.’
‘I’m sure that’s not the case,’ said Stratton. ‘Does she live nearby?’
‘Albemarle Street. But I couldn’t bear—’
‘Why don’t you let me speak to her? I’m sure she’ll understand. I imagine that they will have read about your husband in the papers.’
Diana sighed. ‘I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose …’
‘Good. Now, let’s have that statement, shall we?’
‘Can I ask you something before we start?’
‘Fire away.’
‘It was something he said – Backhouse, I mean. When I told him I’d only found out from the papers about James, I said I was going to go to the police to find out what had happened to him – to his
body – and he said they wouldn’t tell me anything before they’d done medical tests on him.’
‘That’s nonsense. It was an accident, wasn’t it?’
Diana stared at him, surprised. ‘How do you know?’
‘PC Eliot told me. He was quite worried about you.’
‘Oh, I see … He was very kind to me, although he must have thought I was mad or something. And,’ she added, ruefully, ‘I suppose he was right to think that.’ With a painful little laugh, she continued, ‘I don’t think I know who I am any more. Perhaps I never did know … Anyway—’ Pulling herself together with a shake that seemed to Stratton to signal the end of the subject, she said, ‘James was run over.’
‘And you read this in yesterday’s paper, did you?’ Diana nodded. ‘Do you know where it happened?’
‘It didn’t say. But the last time I saw him was in Brighton.’
‘The seaside?’ Stratton was surprised. ‘Was he making a film there?’
‘No. He hadn’t had any work for a while. He … Well, he drank, you see. I didn’t realise at first, but then it got worse – so bad that no-one would employ him. We’d gone to Brighton because he thought, with a change of scene, that things might be better.’
‘But they weren’t?’
Diana shook her head. ‘It was somewhere he’d been happy – he’d had holidays there as a child – but it didn’t work. I told him I couldn’t go on as we were, and he told me to leave him, to … to save myself, I suppose he meant. Then he said he loved me, and … well, that was it, really.’
‘But he loved the bottle more,’ said Stratton, as gently as he could.
‘Yes,’ said Diana sadly. ‘That’s what it boiled down to, in the end. It was like a disease,’ she added, defensively. ‘He couldn’t help it.’
Stratton wasn’t at all sure about this, but he didn’t challenge it. Instead, he stood up and went to the door. ‘I’ll ask someone to find out where he is,’ he said. ‘Far from not telling you anything, the police will be trying to locate you. Backhouse – for obvious reasons – didn’t want you going anywhere near us.’
The woman’s a magnet for unsuitable men, Stratton thought, impatient with Diana for her recklessness and almost morbid inertia in the face of certain trouble, and impatient with himself for his attraction to her. Not that he was any more suitable than either Ventriss or Carleton, but he, at least, would neither treat her like a prostitute nor succumb to alcoholism. That’s probably, he thought sourly, why she’d never even look at me. She wouldn’t anyway, he told himself. He wasn’t a glamorous spy or a film director, was he? But if she could not, or would not, fit into the life that society prescribed for her, then why not? That was the only way he’d ever stand a chance. And, even tired and unkempt, she was still the loveliest thing he’d ever seen … But she’d made herself a victim, hadn’t she? She was no different to poor, pathetic John Davies.
It struck him then, so forcefully that he stopped in the middle of the corridor, that whatever she might say, she still had her sense of herself, and her courage. Look at the way she’d stood up to him over Monica! She’d made him feel about an inch high. In any case, who was he to judge her? It wasn’t her fault he’d stuck her up on a pedestal. She was just another poor devil of a human being doing her limited best – and she’d just lost her husband, for Christ’s sake. He was just being a bloody fool.
Jock Anderson’s handshake was perfunctory. Stratton had spoken to him after taking Diana’s statement and, while he didn’t sound exactly enthusiastic, he’d agreed, after listening to a summary of events, to collect her from West End Central. Now, standing at the station door, he said, ‘We read about Carleton’s death. My wife has been trying to contact Mrs Carleton. We went to the place where she was living, but we were told she’d left.’
‘She was wandering about,’ said Stratton. ‘She’s still in a state of shock.’
Anderson nodded curtly. ‘We’ll manage.’
‘I realise that,’ said Stratton, curt in his turn. ‘If there is anything I can do, I’d be more than happy—’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I can’t imagine …’ Anderson allowed the rest of the sentence to hang in the air, leaving Stratton with no doubt that he’d overstepped the mark. He watched as Anderson greeted Diana, who was sitting on a bench in the lobby, huddled inside her fur coat. He raised his hand in a valedictory gesture as they passed, intending to leave it at that, but Diana broke away from Anderson and, standing before him, held out her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done … Edward … thank you so much.’
Surprised that she’d remembered his name, Stratton took a step back.
‘Aren’t you going to shake hands with me?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Yes, of course …’
Retaining his hand in both of hers, Diana said, ‘Colonel Forbes-James … I don’t know if you know, but he died.’
Confused, Stratton shook his head.
‘He left me a letter. He said if I was ever in trouble, I should contact you. He said you would help me … that you are a good man.’
His throat seeming to have sealed itself up in astonishment, Stratton merely nodded, staring at her. The liquid eyes, soft pink lips and blonde hair appeared to float before him in a sort of nimbus. Catching his breath, he said, ‘Diana … if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, please … I’d be delighted …’ He stopped, realising he must sound like a fool.
‘Thank you, Edward.’
Releasing his hand, she turned away and went to Anderson, heels clicking across the stone floor. As she walked through the door and away down the steps, Stratton felt as though he were watching her pass through a veil and into another world.
Chapter Seventy
‘She was choking. I tried to help her, but it wasn’t any good. Her face was blue. I couldn’t bear to see her like that … I had to tie a stocking round her neck and put her to sleep.’
As though Edna Backhouse were an animal, Stratton thought in disgust. He watched Backhouse flick a speck of dust from his lapel with a fastidious movement of his thumb and finger, and fought the urge to lunge across the table and swat his hand down. He could see, from the tight set of Ballard’s jaw as he bent over his notebook, that he was experiencing something similar.
‘You didn’t think of calling an ambulance?’
‘It was too late for that, Inspector. I could see that. She was convulsing – that’s the medical term, of course … I saw the empty bottle afterwards. Phenobarbitone. The doctor had given them to me because I couldn’t sleep from all the trouble with the coloureds upstairs, but I’d only taken two, so she must have had the rest. An overdose—’
‘There were no drugs found in your wife’s body, Mr Backhouse.’
‘Well, she’d taken them. I acted out of mercy, Inspector.’
Pull the other one, thought Stratton, it’s got bells on. ‘And what did you do after that?’ he asked.
‘I left her in bed for …’ Backhouse paused to consider. ‘Two days, I think, or three, because I didn’t know what to do. Such a shock.’ Here, his eyes widened and his mouth trembled slightly.
What does he expect, thought Stratton. Sympathy? Narrowing his own eyes to show that none was forthcoming, he said, ‘Go on.’
‘It must have been then that I remembered the loose floorboards. I knew there was a space underneath so I took them up. I put her in a blanket and I tried to carry her over there, but she was too heavy, and with my fibrositis …’ Backhouse paused, shaking his head and then ducking it as if remembering a trial bravely borne.
‘Never mind your fibrositis,’ said Stratton. ‘Get on with it.’
‘Well, in the end I had to half-carry and half-drag her, and I put her in there and covered her with some earth. I felt,’ he added, sententiously, ‘that it was the best way to lay her to rest.’
Stratton glanced at Ballard, and saw that the sergeant was looking as if he might be sick. If you’re det
ermined to keep playing it that way, Sunny Jim, he thought, let’s just see how you explain the tarts, shall we?
‘We have identified the three bodies found in the alcove at your former home as Iris Manning, Kathleen McKinnon and Mary Dwyer,’ he said. ‘Can you tell us about them?’
Backhouse frowned and took off his spectacles, rubbing his forehead and pinching the top of his nose, giving the impression of one valiantly trying to solve a problem that was not of his making. ‘I’ll help you if I can, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to keep it straight in my mind.’
‘Let me help you,’ said Stratton. ‘You killed those women and you’re going to tell us how you did it. So, the first one, Miss Manning?’
Backhouse repeated the head-rubbing, nose-pinching, you-know-I’m-trying-to-help-you act. ‘If you say that they were in my flat,’ he said, ‘then I suppose I must have had something to do with it.’ Resting his arms on the table, he frowned, thoughtfully. Then, seeing that this was making no impression on his stony-faced audience, he said, ‘I believe … yes, that’s it. I met her in a café by the station. She must have come up to me … I think she asked me for a cigarette and then started a conversation. She mentioned that she had nowhere to live. It was some story about a friend who’d let her down – I can’t remember the details.’ Backhouse ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I’m not sure … I must have mentioned that I was thinking of moving, because she asked if she could see my flat. She wanted to come that evening and have a look – that was her suggestion. I said that would be all right …’ Backhouse tailed off and his eyes darted furtively round the room as if seeking something.
‘And then …?’ prompted Stratton.
