Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  “Well, I just hope he knows what he’s doing, that’s all.”

  Soper looked at his watch. “Time we were on our way, I think. Let’s walk back to the station.”

  He set off in the direction of West Ham Lane, with Jago falling into step beside him.

  “There’s something else I wanted to ask you,” said Soper. “How are you getting on with that American?”

  “The journalist, sir?”

  “Yes, the newspaper woman. Are you telling her what she needs to know? And more to the point, telling her what the Ministry of Information needs her to know? That fellow from the ministry who brought her down here said it’s essential to the war effort to paint the right picture for the American public.”

  “She certainly seems interested in telling the truth, sir, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What do you mean, ‘If that’s what I mean’? Of course we want her to tell the truth – it just needs to be our truth.”

  “She’s a clever lady, sir: I’m not sure she’d fall for it if I tried to pull the wool over her eyes, especially when she’s here and can see for herself what’s happening.”

  “Just watch your step, that’s all I’m saying. No spreading alarm and despondency, especially to her. What sort of things is she asking about?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen her or heard anything from her for a few days – I believe she’s gone to Liverpool to report on the effects of the bombing there. I dare say the censors will only let her talk about ‘a town in the north-west of England’ or ‘a north-west coastal district’, but I suppose to American readers that might not sound as absurd as it does to us. I did get a note from her yesterday, though.”

  “And?”

  “She said she wants to write something about the effects of the blackout on the level of crime – the fact that it’s gone up since the war started. She’s arranged to come and see me next week to talk about it.”

  “Fine. No doubt you can reassure her that we’re coping with the challenge.”

  “She also said she’s interested in all the talk of a Fifth Column. Wants to know if we’ve seen anything like that going on since the air raids started. Anything we can talk about, of course. After what happened with Quisling in Norway when the Germans took over I imagine the Americans are wondering how many similar characters might be waiting in the wings here. I’m supposed to be having lunch with her tomorrow, so I might find out more then.”

  “Fifth Column? Good Lord! You be careful what you say about that. And don’t go treading on Special Branch’s toes: they won’t take kindly to having a detective inspector from West Ham quoted in the American press on a subject like that.”

  “I don’t think I’ll get on the wrong side of the Branch, sir.”

  “Yes, of course, I was forgetting. You’ve got a foot in the door there, haven’t you? When was it you did that secondment?”

  “In 1936, sir, during the fighting in Spain. Liaison with the French police, to do with arms smuggling.”

  “Yes, yes. Don’t tell me any more: I don’t want to know. It was because you had the lingo, wasn’t it?”

  “I like to think it wasn’t just because I speak French, sir, but yes, that was part of it.”

  “A policeman who can speak French. Who’d have thought of it, eh? Personally, I’ve always found the King’s English is all I need. I don’t hold with foreigners: you can’t trust them. Especially the French – nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The DDI fell silent and said no more until they reached the entrance to West Ham police station, where he halted.

  “By the way,” he said, “how was it you came to speak French? You did tell me once, but I’ve forgotten. Family connection, wasn’t it?”

  “My mother was French, sir, so I suppose I couldn’t help it.”

  “Ah, yes, your mother. Quite. Well, I can’t hang about chatting. Just make sure you don’t tell that journalist anything you shouldn’t. I don’t want to find out she’s part of the Fifth Column herself.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “Morning, sir… Morning, sir.” Sergeant Tompkins greeted Soper and Jago in turn as they entered. The DDI replied with a brisk grunt and strode on towards his office. Jago stopped at the station sergeant’s desk.

  “Morning, Frank. Thanks for the early call – very kind of you to make sure I didn’t oversleep. How’s things with you today?”

  “Mustn’t grumble. A little spot of trouble with the missus in the night, though.”

  “The joys of marriage,” said Jago. “The things I miss. Dare I ask what was the matter?”

  “It was the cold, that’s all. That shelter of ours was freezing, and she’s been complaining about it. The thing was, I splashed out ten and six on a paraffin heater last week to try and keep us warm at night, but when I went down the oil shop to buy some paraffin, they’d sold out, and she was none too pleased.”

  “Maybe you should borrow a few blankets from the cells.”

  “Not likely. Have you smelled them?”

  The door opened, and Cradock breezed into the station.

  “Hello again, sir,” he said. “All sorted out down at the mortuary. Morning, sarge – hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Not at all, Detective Constable. I was just discussing some operational matters with Mr Jago. Isn’t that right, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Jago. “Important matters, but nothing to detain us now. I fancy we’ve a busy day ahead of us.”

  “Too true,” said Tompkins. “I hear you’ve got a body to get your teeth into.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” said Jago. “Bad news travels fast, I see.”

  “Young Stannard told me. Said it looked like there may have been foul play. Is it murder?”

  “It looks that way, yes.”

  “Well, that’ll be nice for you, sir. Something to take your mind off things.”

  “What things are you thinking of?”

  “Oh, nothing special. Just things, you know – like the small matter of the Nazi hordes massing on the other side of the Channel and getting ready to invade us at the drop of a hat, that’s all.”

  “Not the sort of thing to worry an old soldier like you, Frank, surely?”

  “Quite right. Especially not now we’ve got those Local Defence Volunteers to protect us.”

  “The Home Guard, you mean – they changed the name weeks ago.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. I tried to join up, but they said I was too young.” Tompkins laughed at his own joke and continued. “I preferred the original name. You know what they say: LDV – ‘Look, Duck, and Vanish’. Not a good name for a crack fighting force.”

  He leaned on the desk and gave another wheezy laugh.

  “No, the only thing worrying me is what’ll happen to my pension if the German storm troopers somehow get past them and that Hitler sets up shop in Whitehall.”

  “Now that’s something I hadn’t thought of,” said Jago. “The effect of an invasion on police pensions.”

  “You can laugh. It’ll be your turn one day. And in the meantime, I nearly forgot – there was a message for you. I think it could have a bearing on this case of yours.”

  “Oh, yes? Who was it from?”

  “It was a Miss Hornby, phoning from a company called Everson Engineering in Fords Park Road. She sounded the prim and proper sort – said she was their head of personnel, or something like that. She called about an hour ago to say one of their employees hadn’t turned up for work this morning and wasn’t at home.”

  “A bit soon to start phoning us, isn’t it?”

  “She said this was the sort who’s very reliable, never late. She also said this particular employee is a young woman who lives alone in a flat in Canning Town. This Miss Hornby was phoning to check whether she might be on the casualty list from last night’s raid. That’s when I thought there might be a connection with your body on the bomb-site.”

  “Name?”

 
“Mary Watkins. Miss.”

  “And did you ask for a description?”

  “Of course. She’s twenty-something, height about five foot four, slim build, and red hair. Cut quite short and not permed, apparently – she gave me all the detail. Said this Mary was the only woman in the office without waves, but was the kind of girl men seem to find attractive all the same. The old bird sounded a bit sniffy about it, too. Probably jealous, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “The description fits,” said Jago. “Come along, Peter. We’re going back to Canning Town.”

  Jago drove the Riley south through Plaistow towards Canning Town. He had the roof down and hoped the cool breeze would keep him awake, but in the passenger seat beside him Cradock seemed to be dozing off already – he probably wasn’t sleeping as well as he’d claimed, Jago reflected. Didn’t want anyone to think he couldn’t take it.

  That’s what we’re all supposed to say, he thought: “We can take it.” To judge by the newsreels and the papers, and what they said the American reporters were writing, that was the watchword of all Londoners now that the city was taking such a hammering. It struck him that he hadn’t seen anything that Dorothy, the only American reporter he knew, had written for her paper about them. Did she too make it all so simplistic? He was growing tired of the cheerful optimism he read everywhere in the press, the jaunty tone of the newsreel announcers. The whole thing was a damn sight more complicated than that.

  He found himself wondering what Dorothy might be doing right now, in Liverpool, if that’s where she really was. The feeling had crept up on him, but it was a fact: he missed her. She was definitely intruding into his thoughts more than she should, he thought. That was complicated too. He’d spent twenty years making a life for himself, building habits, weaving patterns of existence like a cocoon around him, and now this blasted war was unsettling everything. Nothing was in its right place any more, and he didn’t like it.

  He saw the turning for Fords Park Road and yanked the steering wheel round. Cradock gave a little jump, as if waking.

  “Must be nearly there,” said Jago. “Keep an eye out for Everson Engineering.”

  “Will do,” said Cradock, stifling a yawn.

  Jago drove past the rambling 1890s factory complex that formed the Paragon Works. That was a big place, impossible to miss. He doubted Everson’s premises would be quite so conspicuous. He slowed the car.

  “There it is, guv’nor,” said Cradock, pointing ahead and to the left.

  Jago spotted the company’s name in large letters on the front of a more modern two-storey building, behind which he could glimpse the roof of a larger structure. It looked like the usual arrangement – a front block in brick, designed to impress, which would be where the management had its offices, and a much larger and cheaper factory area behind, where the employees made whatever it was the company sold. After the distinctive towers and tall chimney of the Paragon Works it looked very ordinary. There was a parking area in front, so he pulled in and stopped.

  Jago and Cradock were soon met in the entrance hall by Miss Hornby. Prim and proper might be a fair description, thought Jago. She was tall, thin, and bespectacled, and wearing a black dress which to the best of his limited knowledge was not the fashion of the day, certainly in its length. She looked in her forties, although perhaps the style of her hair, pulled back into a neat bun, and her formal stance with hands clasped before her made her look older than her years.

  “Good morning, Miss Hornby,” he said. “I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is my colleague Detective Constable Cradock. I understand you’re the head of personnel here.”

  “Head of personnel and administration,” she corrected him.

  Yes, thought Jago, prim and proper. Spot on, Frank.

  “And what is the business? Clearly engineering, judging by the name, but what sort of engineering are you involved in?”

  “We are indeed an engineering company, and our work is light engineering, both mechanical and electrical. Before the war we did specialist projects for bigger companies, things like electrical motors, parts for machine tools, and so on. Now it’s mainly war work: components for aircraft control systems and communications, and other things which I’m sure you’ll forgive me for saying I can’t talk about.”

  “Quite. Now, I’ve received your report about Miss Watkins; thank you for informing us. I’m sorry to have to say this, but the description you gave us does appear to coincide with that of a young woman who was found dead at a location which was bombed during the night, but she was carrying no identification and wasn’t known to the local air-raid warden. It’s quite possible that she is not your missing employee, so I’m sorry if what I’ve said is distressing, but we need to find out who she is.”

  Jago noticed that there was not a tremor of emotion on Miss Hornby’s face.

  “Can you tell me a little about Miss Watkins?” he continued. “I’d particularly like to know who her next-of-kin is, but anything else you can tell me could be useful.”

  Miss Hornby took a pale blue folder from under her arm.

  “I brought her file down with me in anticipation of such a question,” she said. “Shall we sit?”

  She led the two men across the lobby to a small seating area partially screened off by a couple of large palms in brass pots. It looked like the kind of spot where visitors would be asked to wait until a representative of the company came down to escort them in. She invited them to take a chair and then sat beside Jago and opened the file. He noticed, however, that the way she held it ensured he could not see the contents.

  “Mary Watkins,” she read from the file. “Born in Canning Town, 12 August 1912, so she’s twenty-eight years old. She left school at fourteen and joined us as a junior clerk. She was very capable, and worked her way up to her present position, which is staff welfare and clerical officer in the welfare and personnel department.”

  “So she works for you.”

  “She works for Everson Engineering, Inspector, but I am her manager, so she comes under my direction.”

  “I see. What more can you tell me? Her address, for example?”

  “Let me see now… yes, here it is. She lives at 17 Hudson Road. It’s only a short walk from here.”

  “And next-of-kin?”

  “Under next-of-kin we have her sister, Miss Susan Watkins, with an address in Forest Gate: 21 Banham Road. But I’m afraid that may not be up to date. I suppose with these air raids now we ought to put more effort into keeping our next-of-kin records accurate, but things have got so busy there never seems time. Anyway, all I’m saying is she may not be there any more.”

  “Don’t worry: we’ll check. I’m anxious to confirm her identity, though, as soon as possible. Would you be willing to come and identify the body for us at Queen Mary’s Hospital as soon as we’ve finished here? We’ll run you over there in the car and bring you straight back.”

  “Yes, of course. But tell me, is she – is the body badly damaged?”

  “No, there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll be all right.”

  For the first time since arriving, Jago saw a crack appear in her carefully constructed façade. She took a small lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector, but this is all such a terrible shock. The idea that Mary, Miss Watkins that is, could be dead – it’s too much to take in.”

  “Were you close to her?”

  Her expression suggested she found the question curious, and she resumed her previous composed manner.

  “Miss Watkins was a valued member of staff and had become very dear to all of us. I don’t know what we’ll do without her.”

  “What else can you tell me?” said Jago. “How would you describe her?”

  “Experienced, efficient, and reliable. She seemed to put her whole life into her work: the sort that would stay on and work late to get the job done. As you may have worked out for yourself, she’s been with us for fourteen years, and we’ve seen her
grow from a mere slip of a girl into a responsible and reliable member of staff.”

  “And outside of work?”

  “That I wouldn’t know. I only saw her in working hours, and she didn’t talk about her life outside those hours. I would say she was a private person – she didn’t bring her personal life to work with her.”

  “Right,” said Jago. “Do you know of anyone here who did see her outside working hours?”

  Miss Hornby removed her steel-rimmed glasses and held them in her right hand, tapping them against her lower lip. After a few seconds’ thought she jabbed them towards him.

  “Yes, there’s one girl I believe she sees socially from time to time. Angela Willerson – she’s one of our workshop supervisors.”

  “Could we see her? It will probably have to be tomorrow.”

  “Yes, she’ll be here tomorrow morning. We start at eight o’clock and finish at one on Saturdays, so come any time between those hours. I’ll tell her you want to talk to her.”

  “Thank you. But to get back to Miss Watkins – when was the last time you saw her?”

  “She was here at work yesterday. I was talking to her just before she went home.”

  “And did she seem worried about anything, preoccupied?”

  “No, she seemed quite happy, actually. What a dreadful loss: I can’t imagine we’ll never see her again.”

  “I’m sorry to ask you so many questions. I realize this must be very distressing, but can you tell me, please: what was she wearing?”

  “If I recall correctly, it was a grey jacket and skirt and a green silk blouse. I remember telling her I thought the blouse was very fetching on her, although it’s not the sort of thing I’d wear myself.”

  “That’s what the body was wearing.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Hornby. Her voice was dull, subdued.

  “Please excuse me, Inspector,” she said after a pause, “but it’s beginning to sound as though the person you’ve found is Mary, and there’s a question I have to ask you. Were any keys found on her?”