Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  “She’s – she was older than me, five years older. We grew up here together and then she got a job and left home. You know where she worked. What else is there to say?”

  “I understand she was unmarried.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if she had any close male friends? Was she walking out with anyone?”

  “I’ve no idea. And if she were, I doubt whether she’d have told me.”

  “Is there any other family?”

  “No, it was just the two of us. Our parents died three years ago, and we had no other brothers or sisters.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “I don’t know – not for a while, anyway. Mary’s always busy with her work and we don’t run into each other very often. I don’t think I’ve seen her since before the wedding.”

  “Which wedding was that?” said Jago.

  “Mine,” she replied. “It was at the end of July, so that’s nearly a couple of months ago now.”

  “So how was she at the wedding?”

  “She wasn’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t put that very clearly. I didn’t see her at the wedding. She wasn’t able to come.”

  “I see. Now, there’s a small matter you may be able to help us with. Do you have a recent photograph of your sister that you could give us?”

  She thought for a moment and slowly shook her head.

  “No, I’m afraid I haven’t. We weren’t the sort of people who’d take pictures of each other.”

  Jago nodded.

  “Very well,” he continued. “I’m sorry to have to ask you this, Mrs Fletcher, but can you think of any reason why someone might have wanted to kill Mary?”

  Susan gave a faint shudder.

  “What a horrible thought. The answer is no. As I said, we didn’t see a lot of each other, and I have no idea what kind of people she mixed with. I wish I could be more helpful, but she was a very private person. She always kept herself to herself.”

  “Can you tell me where you were yesterday evening?”

  She drew herself up straight in the chair and looked affronted.

  “Are you asking me for an alibi?”

  “It’s purely routine, Mrs Fletcher.”

  “I see. In that case, if you must know, I was here, with my husband.”

  “And later, during the night?”

  “Here, of course. We were in bed all night, together.”

  “In your Anderson shelter? If you have one, that is.”

  “No, we’ve got a cellar here, so we shelter down there during the raids: it’s a bit cosier than those horrible little Anderson shelters. My husband shored it up, and it’s got electric light. Does he need to confirm that I was here?”

  “No need for that, thank you. Will he be able to get home if you need someone to look after you?”

  “Yes, that won’t be a problem. He’s a typewriter mechanic, so he’s out and about in his van all day, but if I need him I can ask the company where he is and get hold of him. But there’s no need for you to worry: I’m perfectly fine.”

  “Could you give me the address and telephone number of your husband’s office for me, Mrs Fletcher? We may want to speak to him.”

  She crossed the room to a bureau that stood in the far corner, wrote on a piece of notepaper and handed it to him. Jago folded it and put it into his pocket.

  “One last question,” he said. “We’ve already had your sister’s body identified by her employers, as I said, because we didn’t even know if we had the right address for you. But would you like to see her body? We can drive you to the mortuary. People sometimes just like to say goodbye to their loved one. Would you like to go?”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Susan. “I don’t think I shall.”

  Jago and Cradock got into the car, and Jago turned the ignition key.

  “What do you make of that, then?” he said.

  “Mary was a private person who didn’t go to her sister’s wedding,” said Cradock.

  “Yes. Now in my experience it’s usually the neighbours who say the deceased was a very private person, and all it means is they could never be bothered to talk to him or take enough interest to know anything about him. But the sister? You’d expect her to know a bit more, wouldn’t you? But then again, if you walked down this street and knocked on fifty doors you’d probably find there was some kind of family feud going on in every other house.”

  “She didn’t seem very upset at the news.”

  “You can’t always tell. It takes people differently. Did you see that look on her face when we told her it was suspected murder?”

  “Yes, she just stared, didn’t she?”

  “Correct. I’ve seen that sort of stare before, more times than I’d like to remember. Soldiers, in the war. Shell shock. Men who’ve seen more than they can cope with. They never said anything about it – they just stared at nothing.”

  “It can’t be the same with her, though; not a young woman like that. Maybe she’s just a goldfish.”

  Jago turned to face Cradock with what he hoped was a patient expression.

  “Cold fish, Peter.”

  “Sir?”

  “A cold fish is a person who doesn’t betray their emotions. A goldfish is what the rag and bone man gives you for your mum’s old clothes.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t worry. Whatever kind of fish she is, her reaction may mean nothing. Perhaps Mrs Fletcher’s a private person too.”

  “And she cares more about her husband than her sister.”

  “That’s common enough. You can’t choose your family.”

  “Looks like she’s chosen a husband who can keep her in a smart house and new clothes, at any rate.”

  “Ah,” said Jago, “but that depends on who chose whom.”

  He pressed the gear change pedal, and the car’s engine rose to an eager growl as they set off for the police station.

  CHAPTER 11

  There wasn’t much greenery in Canning Town, but Beatrice Cartwright’s walk home from Everson Engineering took her past the recreation ground, which to her was an oasis of peace. On sunny days she liked to stop there and sit for a while to enjoy the smell of the grass and the sight of the horse chestnut trees, so refreshing after a day cooped up in an office full of cigarette smoke. Today the light was just beginning to fade, but it was still a pleasant enough evening for her to linger, as long as she was home before the blackout. She was pleased to find she had the park to herself – it was deserted.

  She sat down on a wooden bench facing south across the recreation ground, leaned into the backrest and closed her eyes, letting the declining sun warm her skin. Her mind drifted to bank holiday trips to the beach just ten years ago. Beatrice was still a child then, and she remembered her heart and imagination straining for some magic to make this the longest day of the year – anything that would enable her to squeeze out just ten minutes more to perfect her sandcastle, one more game of ball with her mother. Now she did not want to think about those beaches. They would be scarred with barbed wire, mines and tank traps to fend off the approaching invasion. Any day now the sand could be soaked in the blood of unimaginable battle.

  She opened her eyes to dispel that unpleasant image and felt a slight downward movement in the slats of the bench beneath her. It made her jump. She turned to see what had caused it. A man had sat down beside her, silently. He was wearing a dark coat and had a cap pulled down over his eyes. She didn’t recognize him.

  Before she could say anything, he addressed her.

  “Beatrice Cartwright?”

  “Yes. I mean, who – what do you want?”

  “I want you to stay right where you are and keep quiet.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you to keep quiet. I’ll do the talking, and you’ll speak when I tell you to.”

  She looked around for help, but there was no one in sight. The man kept his eyes fixed on her.

  “And if you’re thinking of
trying to run for it, I should think again if I were you. Not in a lonely place like this.”

  Beatrice felt as though she were physically shrinking into herself.

  “What… What do you want?”

  “I want to have a little chat with you, that’s all – as long as you behave yourself.”

  “A chat about what?”

  “About your work, my dear – at Everson’s.”

  “Who are you? And how do you know where I work?”

  The man spoke quietly. His voice was low and even, with none of the tension she could hear in her own.

  “It’s my business to know,” he said. “In fact I know quite a lot about you. I know, for example, that you’re twenty-two years old and that you passed your Matriculation Examination and left West Ham High School for Girls in the summer of 1934. I can tell you every job you’ve done since then. And more importantly, perhaps, I know where you live.”

  “What’s this about? You’ve no right to pester me like this. My husband is a police officer – I shall report you.”

  She moved her handbag to cover her ringless left hand, but realized she was too late.

  “I dare say it would be very nice if you had a husband who was a policeman,” said the stranger. “But unfortunately, Miss Cartwright, we both know perfectly well that you’re not married. It’s pure fantasy – perhaps like your fantasy of England living under a German flag.”

  “What? That’s outrageous! Who’s told you that? Whoever it is, they’re a liar.”

  She made a move to get up from the bench, but the man placed his hand firmly on her arm and held it down.

  “There’s no point running away, Miss Cartwright. I just need to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”

  “Stop it. You’re hurting me.”

  He eased his grip, and as he did so she took her chance. She twisted away from him and jabbed backwards with her elbow into his chest. She heard him give a grunt of pain as she sprang away from the bench. But before she could get to her feet he had already lunged forward. She felt his arms close round her from behind and stop her escape. She pushed against them with her hands but could not dislodge his grip. Her shoes skidded on the path as he dragged her sideways and slammed her back onto the bench. In one movement he whirled round and pinned her against the back of the seat, his forearm across the top of her chest.

  “Keep still, Miss Cartwright, and keep quiet, otherwise I shall have to force you to.”

  She wrestled her right hand free and aimed a punch at his ear. He darted his head to one side and the blow seemed to have no effect.

  “I told you to keep still,” he said.

  He stood and leaned over her. She felt his hand close around her throat, and he began to squeeze. She could not push him back, so she tried again to hit him. Her arms were restricted, but she could reach the sides of his trunk. She pummelled him as best she could, but it had no effect. She felt the panic beginning to paralyse her mind.

  Then she remembered what her father had told her when she turned fifteen. She was not far off leaving school and would soon be starting a new and unknown experience. Entering the world of work – the world of men. She’d been surprised by the advice he gave her, but now she knew why. She couldn’t move her head, but from the corner of her eye she could see that the man had planted his feet about twelve inches apart to keep his balance. She wriggled as best she could until she thought she was in the right place. Then with every ounce of strength she could muster she thrust her knee upwards in a vicious jerk and caught him between the legs.

  What happened next astonished her. Her dad was right – the man screamed in a way that she did not know men could. He let go of her throat and clutched his groin. Now, she thought: run! But she couldn’t move – the injured man had slumped across her knees. She pushed at his weight, but it seemed that despite his pain he was determined not to budge. She could not dislodge him. His initial howl had now given way to something more like whimpering, and when he wasn’t groaning he was cursing. She made one last effort and pushed him off with both arms, sending him sprawling on the path.

  She leaped from the bench and ran, heading away from him and towards the nearest gate. Glancing over her shoulder she could see he was already on his feet and setting off after her. She thought she had disabled him, but he seemed to be still capable of running, and he was tall – one of his strides might be worth two of hers.

  The thought of screaming went through her mind, but no one was likely to be coming into the park now. People didn’t hang around waiting for the dark these days. They hurried home to fix their blackout curtains. No – better save your breath for running, she thought.

  She tried to put on more speed, but could not. It was her shoes. Her favourite Lilley & Skinner black courts with a two-inch heel – slip-ons that she could discreetly ease off behind the modesty panel on her desk and give her feet a break at work. But slip-ons meant loose on the instep and round the heel, and now that seemed like a fatal flaw. Ideal for the office, but not for the park.

  She pressed on as fast as she could manage. She was desperate to take her useless shoes off, but that might give him time to catch up. But if she didn’t, they’d just keep slowing her down. She decided the risk was worth it. She stopped and quickly pulled off first one shoe and then the other, keeping one in each hand – their heels were the only weapon she had. She glanced back. He was getting closer. She sped off again, barefoot now save for the rayon stockings that offered no protection to her feet. She felt the rough path cutting into her soles and winced at the pain. She swerved onto the grass, hoping to make more speed on a softer surface.

  She was breathing hard now, and could feel a stitch developing in her side. She tried to force it out of her mind, but as she thrust her left foot to the ground a piercing agony shot through it – she’d trodden on something sharp. She cried out at the shock of the pain but ran on, the foot of her stocking growing wet with her blood. She willed herself forward, but it was no good – she knew she was slowing, and in an instant the man was upon her.

  He grabbed at her arm and she fell to the ground, her shoes tumbling away on the grass. He pinned her hands roughly behind her. She was caught.

  His breath was coming in rasping gulps. It was some moments before he could speak. To her surprise, he eased his grip on her arms.

  “I’m sorry I had to restrain you forcibly, Miss Cartwright,” he said. “I can assure you I had no intention of harming you, but I couldn’t afford to have you running away and causing a commotion.”

  Beatrice shook herself free of him and turned to face him.

  “You were choking me,” she said.

  “Only to stop you attacking me. As you may recall, it was you who hit me first. I was speaking to you on official business, and I still have some questions to ask you. Once you’ve answered them, you’ll be free to go. It’s as simple as that. Now, shall we find somewhere quiet to sit to finish our conversation, or do you want to cause another scene?”

  Keeping his eyes on her, he crouched down and picked up her lost shoes. He held them out to her.

  “Here,” he said. “You can put these back on – just don’t try any more tricks.”

  She slipped both shoes on.

  “What do you want, then?” she said.

  “First I want you and me to go and sit on the bench under that tree,” he said, pointing to his right.

  She nodded and went with him to the bench.

  “Sit down,” he said.

  She sat. He joined her, sitting at an angle on the seat so that he was facing her.

  “Let’s start again,” he said. “As I was saying, it’s my business to know a lot about you and what you’ve been doing.”

  “And I suppose it’s my business to know nothing about you,” said Beatrice. “You haven’t told me who you are. What’s your name?” She tried to sound officious, but knew before the words left her lips that it was futile.

  “My name is Smith,” he said.

 
“I don’t believe that for a moment. Show me your identity card.”

  “Showing you my identity card is neither here nor there,” he said. “For someone in my position it’s not always appropriate to disclose personal details, and while the government requires every British subject to carry an identity card, that requirement is of course subordinate to the broader national interest.”

  “So you’re not necessarily called Smith.”

  “I couldn’t comment.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  The man glanced to his right and to his left down the length of the path, but Beatrice already knew there was no one to help her. He lowered his voice.

  “Does the name Radio Security Service mean anything to you?”

  “No. Why should it?”

  “Because you’re in trouble, and that’s who you’re in trouble with.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Beatrice was finding it impossible to inject any trace of confidence into her voice. Smith was taking no notice of her protestations.

  “Come, now,” he said. “There’s no need to be so modest. You’ve been under observation for some time. My colleagues and I are investigating certain attempted breaches of national security, serious offences under the Defence Regulations 1939. You speak German, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but –”

  He leaned closer, and his tone became harsh again.

  “So was it your political allegiance that got you into it, or just money? It must be tempting to think you can make a bit of cash out of what you know – and of course working at Everson’s, you’ll know some things you’re not supposed to talk about.”

  She felt like a prisoner under interrogation.

  “Nonsense – I’m just a secretary.”

  “I’m not talking about secretaries; I’m talking about spies – people who’ll betray their country for a pocketful of cash.”

  “I’m not a spy – I’m British.”

  “You don’t have to be parachuted in with a suitcase and a German accent to be a spy. We’re well aware there are plenty of British subjects willing to serve a foreign master. With some, of course, it’s just a case of misguided naivety. Perhaps that’s how it started with you. But when we find people are sending wireless communications to the enemy it’s a much more serious matter.”