CHAPTER FOUR
Harry Wintle turned up for his lunch as Stratton and Canning were going through the contents of Lloyd’s meagre wardrobe. Leaving Canning examining a threadbare jacket that smelt strongly of camphor, Stratton interviewed Wintle in his room. Around thirty, stout and ham-faced, dressed in paint-splashed overalls and steel-capped boots, with a grubby bandage wound inexpertly round the end of one finger, he’d received the news of his fellow lodger’s demise with violent raisings of his eyebrows and huffing noises made through pursed lips, accompanied by bulging cheeks. After a moment, clearly feeling that he’d reacted enough, he turned his back on Stratton and set about heating up a tin of tomato soup on his solitary gas ring.
‘Can’t say I knew him well. We didn’t have a lot in common, did we?’
Looking round Wintle’s spartan accommodation, which was entirely devoid of books and decorated exclusively with film stars torn from magazines with ‘come hither’ eyes and breasts jutting provocatively from swimsuits or low-cut gowns, Stratton had to agree. ‘Did he tell you that he was writing a book?’
‘Told everyone. Kept it in a briefcase, didn’t he? Pages and pages in there . . . you never saw him without it. Never showed me, though, or anyone else so far as I know. Wouldn’t surprise me if the whole lot was blank.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Stratton, remembering what Father Shaw had said.
‘He was a bit of a crank, wasn’t he? Harmless enough, though, and he’d have given you his last penny if you’d asked. Can’t see why anyone would have wanted to do away with him. For one thing, he never went out, and he never saw anyone, either, unless you count that padre.’ Judging from his expression, Wintle clearly didn’t. Then he frowned, and peered into his saucepan as if seeking inspiration – or perhaps confirmation – before adding, ‘I did think something might have scared him, though.’
‘Why?’
Wintle glared at the soup again, so intently and for so long that Stratton half expected a miniature hand with a sword to rise out of the viscous orange puddle, then said, ‘He give me a photograph, didn’t he? It’s on there.’ He jerked his head towards the mantelpiece, where, among a litter of string, tools, a half-bald shaving brush and a cracked saucer, was a large brown envelope. There was no writing on it, and it looked new.
Inside was a photograph of a very attractive woman who looked to be about twenty-five, standing on a lawn, with part of a tree – Stratton could see the white candelabra of a horse chestnut – and the corner of what looked like a large building behind her. Turning it over, Stratton saw the initials L.R. written on the back. ‘Did he tell you who she was?’
‘No. And I’d remember if I’d seen her. Smasher, ain’t she?’
She certainly was, and looked as if she knew it. Dark-haired, with sculpted features and enormous eyes, black and liquid, there was an assured sexiness about her that, despite the demure frock, rivalled the flashier beauties on Wintle’s walls.
‘Did he say anything about her at all?’
Wintle shook his head. ‘Just that I was to keep it. Then he said I might not see him again. When I asked if he was leaving he just said he’d try to contact me. “In another way” was what he said. Then he went off back to his room.’
‘He said he’d try to contact you in another way?’
‘Those exact words. I didn’t know what he was on about, unless he meant a letter, because there’s no telephone in this house. To be honest, I didn’t think nothing more of it. He was always a bit mysterious – acting like he’d got some secret the rest of us didn’t know . . . Like I said, a crank. Come to think of it, that was the last time I saw him.’
‘When was that?’
‘Couple of days ago. Hold up . . . Saturday, it was. I remember that because it’s the day I did this.’ He held up the bandaged finger. ‘Got a splinter, didn’t I? Big bugger. I was trying to get it out when he come in, so I didn’t pay too much attention . . . Still in there, some of it, and now it hurts like hell.’
‘Were you here last night?’
Wintle nodded. ‘Wasn’t back till, oooh . . . half past eleven, twelve, something like that. Took my girl out, didn’t I? She thinks I ought to see the doctor about this.’ He cradled his injured finger in the other hand. ‘I was working in a place where they’ve had horses and she’s worried about tetanus.’
Stratton took the photograph downstairs, where he found Father Shaw still there, sitting with a baleful-looking Mrs Linder. He was obviously attempting to comfort her, although Stratton thought that by the looks of him it should have been the other way round. Neither of them recognised the woman, and nor, when he went up to Mrs Hendry’s garret, did she. PC Canning, having given the photograph a careful once-over and a low whistle, told him that he hadn’t come across any photographs in Lloyd’s room at all, nor any reference to a name with the initials L.R.
‘What about a briefcase?’ said Stratton. ‘Or anything that looks like a manuscript?’
‘Nothing like that, sir. I’ve looked everywhere – the only place left is under the bed.’
‘Fair enough.’ Stratton got down on his knees and lifted up the edge of the candlewick bedspread, where he found a pair of dirty sheets, rolled up, and a large wooden box with a padlock.
‘Could be the answer to the mystery, sir,’ said Canning, as he hauled it out onto the rug.
‘If the manuscript actually exists,’ said Stratton. ‘Father Shaw and Wintle both knew about it, but they seemed to think it was make-believe.’
‘Well,’ said Canning, ‘if it’s anywhere, it’s here. And look what I found . . .’ He leant over and lifted up one corner of the pillow to show a key. ‘Nothing else here with a lock on, so . . .’
Stratton watched, expectant now in spite of himself, as Canning turned the key, removed the padlock, and threw back the lid with a flourish.
The box was empty.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stratton gazed up at the iron-girdered roof of Harringay Arena, and then at the floodlit platform decorated with baskets and urns of flowers, where an enormous choir of women in white blouses and men in dark suits stood waiting under the square black eyes of a battery of film cameras. The place was filling up quickly – audiences of up to twelve thousand, Stratton had heard. Watching the fervent expressions of the people near him, most of whom were twenty or less, he had, despite the preponderance of damp mackintoshes and the crescendo of phlegmy coughing, a sudden, disturbing memory of the newsreels he’d seen of Nazi rallies, the youthful, eager supporters with their upturned faces, waiting to receive the Führer’s message.
He had to admit that the choir’s singing, when it got under way, was magnificent. ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah’, conducted in a flamboyant style that made Stratton think of a Cup Final. Then Billy Graham himself appeared, slim and handsome, with golden hair that waved back from his brow, made almost a halo by the bright lights. Stratton’s first impression was that he was very small, but then, he told himself, in contrast with the stylised portrait of the face – radiating clean-cut health and strong-jawed sincerity, and a hundred times bigger than life – that had eyeballed him from every street corner for the last month, he would be small, wouldn’t he? Actually, when measured against the other men on the platform, he seemed pretty tall, with an air of smart athleticism – a sportsman in his Olympic suit. When he began to speak, Stratton noticed that he had a microphone attached to his tie, its flex trailing from his jacket, and he suddenly wondered how Jesus had managed to address the five thousand without amplification. Odd that whoever wrote the Bible hadn’t thought to mention that that in itself was a miracle – feeding the buggers, Stratton thought, was nothing in comparison. After all, you could get loaves and fishes from anywhere . . . For God’s sake, he told himself, pay attention. You’re here, so you might as well listen.
He and his brother-in-law Donald had been dragged along to the meeting by their other brother-in-law, Reg. His daughter Monica was there, too, but that was only becau
se she’d made a date to see him that evening and expressed mild curiosity about tagging along when Reg had insisted on his attendance. Reg’s urging had surprised both him and Don; his attendance at church was limited to weddings, christenings and funerals, plus the odd duty visit at Christmas and, although he was capable of talking balls by the yard on just about every subject under the sun, religion had never, as far as either of them could remember, been one of them. It was odd, too, that it wasn’t his wife or his sisters-in-law to whom Reg had appealed, only himself and Don.
Stratton wondered what, if anything, he was expecting. In so far as he’d ever given serious thought to God, he supposed he believed in a general, informal sort of way . . . or at least he had until his wife Jenny had been killed twelve years earlier. After that, his feelings were more like hatred – although in a confused way, because he felt guilty, too, about not having got there fast enough to prevent her death. The only time he’d discussed this was with Don, who’d opined that people believed in order to explain, or at least dismiss in safety, those bits of the universe that they didn’t understand. Then, as Don had pointed out, science explained some of the bits and people believed less, or, alternatively, science failed them and they went back to religion. That, Stratton thought, was probably about the size of it, although God seemed to him to be somehow more factual than this allowed for; not uplifting, and certainly not consoling, but just sort of ‘there’. Not that he’d ever attempt to explain any of that to Don, of course, but he couldn’t imagine, aged fifty, that life – or indeed anything that he might hear this evening – was going to show him any different.
Stratton glanced at Reg, who’d been uncharacteristically silent since they’d met up in the queue outside the arena, and wondered what he was thinking. He saw that his brother-in-law’s coarse-grained face had a closed, intense look and his usually high, varnished colour seemed dull. He turned his attention back to Billy Graham, who was in the middle of some personal anecdote about being in an aeroplane – there’d obviously been something about losing radio contact, because now he was talking about making contact with God. ‘You say,’ he intoned briskly, “Billy, how can I make contact with God?” Jesus said, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Light.” There is only one way back to God – through Jesus Christ!’
It seemed to Stratton that the man, though undoubtedly likeable, lacked the gift of oratory – hence, he thought, his own lapse of concentration. He wasn’t the only one, either – from somewhere behind him he could hear fidgeting and whispering and once, a muffled laugh. The delivery was rapid, almost staccato, and, because of the microphone, tinnily mechanical. Although he strode about a fair bit, there were no expansive gestures. Now there was some stuff about God’s eye being always upon us, but with a good deal less turgid doom-mongering than he remembered from the Sunday services of his youth, probably because it was garlanded with a lot of stuff about hope and forgiveness and opening your heart. He certainly seemed to know his Bible, too – he held it all the time as he quoted, slapping it for emphasis but never once looking at the pages, and interspersing the stories with a lot of rhetorical questions of the ‘Who is God? What is God? Does God matter?’ variety. As far as Stratton could tell, it seemed to be mostly New Testament stuff – parables and the like. He guessed that the reason for this was that the Old Testament – at least, in his recollection – was either incomprehensible or full of foul-tempered characters doing disagreeable things, with God the worst of the lot.
Stratton glanced at his daughter and brothers-in-law. Don was frowning and Monica seemed to be staring at her feet. Reg was leaning forward with the sort of strained expression which could have denoted anything from total concentration to stifling a fart. After about forty minutes, Graham, who’d been talking about what he called ‘getting right’ with God, opened his arms wide and, after a dramatic pause, intoned, ‘Come and give yourself to God! Declare yourself for Christ! If you want Christ, you need Christ. You want Him to change your life. Come to the front . . .’
After some initial reluctance, a trickle of people began to move towards the platform. Graham repeated his exhortation, and, slowly, more people followed. Stratton did a quick headcount: one hundred, two hundred, three . . . They seemed to display no emotion, although, as they passed, he noticed that one or two were in tears. As the choir began to sing an anthem, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Reg had stood up. Monica, looking surprised, moved out of his way, as, after leaning down to whisper briefly in Don’s ear, he began making his way towards the front.
Stratton raised his eyebrows interrogatively at Don, who, giving a disbelieving shake of the head, muttered, ‘He says not to wait for him after.’
‘Fair enough.’ Stratton watched as Reg and the other stragglers were marshalled to the side of the platform, where a group of dark-suited men with what looked like badges on their lapels waited to lead them out of sight. Stratton supposed that these must be the counsellors he’d read about in the paper, who encouraged people in their faith. He tried to imagine what sort of conversation Reg might have with such a person, failed, and then, detaching himself from the proceedings, sat back with his arms crossed, waiting for the thing to end so that they could go home.
‘What did you think?’ he said to Monica. They were standing under the overhang of the vast building, sheltering from the drizzle as they waited for Don, who’d got stuck behind a knot of people, to make his way through the crowd.
His daughter, who’d been adjusting a headscarf over her long black hair, paused for a moment, biting her lip. ‘Don’t know, really. It’s a bit . . . well, much. For me, anyway.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘I’m surprised about Uncle Reg. Being so keen on it, I mean.’
‘Me too.’
‘Is he all right? I thought he looked a bit under the weather.’
‘He’s probably coming down with a cold or something. How about a cup of coffee? There must be somewhere open round here.’
Monica knotted the scarf under her chin. ‘Better get back. If I miss the ten o’clock train, the next one’s not for ages.’ She leant forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’
‘All right, then.’ Stratton patted her on the back. ‘Keep safe, won’t you?’
‘Course. You too, Dad. Night, then.’
Stratton watched her weave through the crowd until her slender figure was lost to sight, wishing, not for the first time, that she’d find a nice chap and settle down. His niece Madeline had been married for a few years now – Don and Doris were grandparents – but Monica, at twenty-six, showed no signs of doing the same. She seemed happy enough, working as a make-up girl for a film studio in Essex and renting a tiny cottage nearby with a girl who worked for a fashionable London milliner, but there’d been a lot of trouble over a young film star called Raymond Benson, who’d proved to be a complete shit, and married, to boot. He worried that the experience – not to mention her subsequent miscarriage – had put her off men for good. It couldn’t be for lack of offers, because she was lovely looking, just like his wife Jenny had been at her age except for the hair colour, which was like his – or like most of it, anyway. In the last year, he’d suddenly noticed that he was greying at the temples. Still, at least he had all his hair, which was more than could be said for Don. His brother-in-law’s head, as he bobbed towards him through the throng, looked, in the harsh light cast by the lamps outside the stadium, like a large, freckled egg.
They walked away in silence, and it was only when they reached the tube station that Don broke it by asking, ‘Well, what did you make of it?’
‘I’m not sure, really,’ said Stratton. ‘Pretty impressive, I suppose. You?’
‘I’m not sure, either. I don’t know that he’s making that many converts, though. I got the impression that most of the people who declared themselves, or whatever you call it, were pretty fervent already.’
‘Not Reg, though.’
‘No.’ Stratton,
who was puzzled and irritated by Reg’s behaviour, and all the more irritated for knowing the irritation was unreasonable – after all, it was none of his business what the man did – hoped that Don would enlarge on this, but he didn’t. Instead, as they stepped into the train, he said, ‘I suppose, with everything that’s happening, the appeal isn’t so surprising.’ He grimaced in the direction of a man reading a newspaper and Stratton saw the headline ALL SET TO GO IN, and, underneath, Egypt rejects, Israel accepts ultimatum. British and French Forces Ready to Take Over Suez Canal Bases.
‘That and the Soviet troops in Hungary,’ said Stratton.
‘That’s another bloody mess, if you ask me. I can’t help remembering how . . . well, romantic, I suppose . . . we were about Communism before the war.’
‘Were we?’
‘I think I was,’ said Donald, ruefully. ‘Naive, anyway. Thinking it would be fairer and so on.’
‘Yes, I suppose we were,’ said Stratton, although he didn’t think he had been, particularly. ‘You were never a party member, though, were you?’
‘No, but I remember thinking, when they all went to Spain, that if I hadn’t got a family and so on . . .’
‘Maybe,’ said Stratton, ‘but I reckon a lot of them’ll be tearing up their party cards now. Even the real diehards are going to have a hell of a job pretending that the Soviets are invading to protect Hungarian workers. Talk about The Light That Failed.’
‘I know . . . But the thing is,’ Donald returned to the previous subject with an air of having escaped to safer ground, ‘that people are bound to want certainties at a time like this, and Billy Graham’s got them, hasn’t he? All that stuff about the Bible solving your problems.’
A Willing Victim Page 3
