by Mike Hollow
“That’s Sir Oswald Mosley, right? The leader of the BUF?”
“That’s right. The Blackshirts used to call him the Leader, with a capital L, à la Hitler, but now he’s sitting in Brixton prison.”
“A bit of a comedown, I guess.”
“Absolutely. So as I was saying, he had more support in those areas – the places where people tend to buy their houses rather than rent – but other parts of West Ham were very anti. The worst place for the fascists was Plaistow – the people there were very red.”
“Did he ever come here?”
“Oh, yes – we had a big song and dance with him here in 1935. He came and spoke at a meeting in Stratford town hall. That BUF man I told you about, the Welshman, he organized it – bit of a fanatic, by all accounts. It was Mosley’s first big indoor meeting in East London, and quite a crowd turned out to hear him. But there was some trouble outside – lots of people shouting abuse and so forth.”
“A riot?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I wasn’t on duty that night – it was a job for uniform and the mounted police – but it can’t have been too bad, because if memory serves me right only five people were arrested and ended up in the magistrates’ court the next day. Two of them were fined five shillings for the usual offences – obstruction, using insulting words and behaviour – and someone else got fined a pound for smashing the glass globe on top of a Belisha beacon in the High Street. Not exactly the storming of the Winter Palace.”
“Did he ever come back?”
“I don’t think so. The BUF carried on having propaganda meetings, though – they had quite a few in Canning Town before the war.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s another part of West Ham – just a couple of miles south of here as the crow flies. I remember they had some open-air meetings down there, in Hayday Road. I was there yesterday, actually, crawling over a bomb-site at the crack of dawn.”
“Were you caught in a raid?”
“No, but someone else was. Very sad scene. A good-looking young woman, full of life one minute, gone the next.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a photograph.
“Here she is, look.” He passed the photo to Dorothy. “She’s the one on the left. Looks like she hasn’t a care in the world, doesn’t she? And now she’s dead.”
Dorothy peered closer at the picture.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “That’s extraordinary.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I think I’ve seen these two women before. In fact I’m sure I have. Look – they’ve both got a beauty spot in the same place, on the lower left cheek.”
“That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“No – they’re not real. They’re make-up.”
Jago looked baffled.
“Do many women do that?”
“It’s the fashion. It’s supposed to make you look kissable.”
The word hit Jago like a punch. He kept walking – the last thing he wanted now was for Cradock to join them – but his businesslike conversation with Dorothy had been suddenly disrupted as an image of a kiss came into his mind, displacing every other thought. He had a strange sensation of fear and for a moment didn’t understand why, but then he realized – he’d already admitted to himself that he liked and admired Dorothy, that he missed her when they were apart, and that she’d become a friend, but only in that moment had the truth become clear. What he felt was more than friendship – he’d been ambushed by an unexpected sense of attraction and attachment to her. He wanted to tell her that she was kissable, and he was shocked. How could he be so unprofessional? He brought his imagination under control and took a deep breath. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his confusion, and tried to make his voice sound as flat as possible when he spoke.
“Right, I see.”
He was alarmed by the intensity of his feeling for her and he determined to bury it. He couldn’t bear to think of her knowing. He was relieved to see that her face showed no sign of having noticed anything untoward.
“These two were probably friends,” Dorothy continued, tapping the photo. “They were having a night out and decided they’d both paint one on in the same place, just for fun.”
“And you, er, you say you’ve seen them?” He was now Detective Inspector Jago again, professional, attentive, focused on the case.
“Yes, that’s it – I saw them having a night out.”
“When?”
“Quite recently…” Dorothy thought for a moment. “It was a Saturday night – not last Saturday but the one before that. I was at a dance at an RAF station – the one in Hornchurch.”
“You were at a dance at RAF Hornchurch? What on earth were you doing there?”
Dorothy laughed.
“I’ve been there several times. I’m a journalist, aren’t I? I have contacts everywhere.”
“And a very good memory for faces, too.”
“I guess so. But I remember these two particularly, because I saw something that looked a bit suspicious.”
“Really?”
“Yes. This one on the left, the one you say has died, she was with two other women – this one here, who she seemed to be very friendly with, and another who’s not in the picture. When the other two left the table to dance, your one – what’s her name?”
“Mary.”
“This one, Mary, looked around quickly as if she wanted to be sure no one was watching her, then took something out of one of their handbags and slipped it into her own.”
“And then?”
“Then she just sat back as cool as a cucumber and waited for the other two to come back.”
“And could you see what it was she took?”
“I wasn’t close enough to be certain, but I’m pretty sure it was a photograph.”
“Thank you, Dorothy,” said Jago. “That could be a very helpful piece of information.”
They were at the station entrance, and Cradock had caught up with them. Jago excused himself briefly to Dorothy and took the detective constable to one side.
“I’ll see Miss Appleton onto her train, Peter. I want you to go straight to the nick. You remember Angela Willerson told us Mary Watkins got very upset when they were at a dance at the RAF station at Hornchurch?”
“When some woman showed her a photo or something, and then Mary got all cross and started calling someone a traitor?”
“That’s right. It turns out that Miss Appleton was at the same dance, and she thinks she saw Mary and Angela – she recognized them from that photo Angela gave us. But the interesting thing is this: she says when Angela and the other woman were away from the table she saw Mary take something from one of their handbags – something that she thinks was a photograph.”
“So that photo could have been quite important?”
“Exactly. Now, when you get back to the station, get on the phone to the RAF at Hornchurch. Find out if they’ve got a dance there tonight.”
“Are we going? I wouldn’t say no to that.”
“No, I don’t want us both turning up like a police enquiry in the middle of their dance. You just find out if there’s one on tonight. If there is, get hold of Angela Willerson and tell her I want to take her to it. I have a sudden desire to go dancing at RAF Hornchurch.”
CHAPTER 16
Gordon Price slept better on Saturday than he had on Friday. He’d gone to bed as soon as he came off his night duty and managed to stay asleep until nearly two o’clock. That was the only advantage of working nights, he reckoned – it meant he got his evenings at home, and a good part of the afternoons. All he needed was a little nap for about half an hour before he went back on duty, and that kept him going through the night. When he first started doing nights he’d worried about nodding off, especially after a War Reserve Constable in another division of the Metropolitan Police was found asleep on duty at five o’clock in the morning and forced to resign. That was a fe
w months ago, of course, before the air raids started, when the nights could be a bit quieter. Not much chance of dropping off these days – the bombs, fire engine bells and anti-aircraft guns saw to that. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances.
Mavis looked up from her knitting when he came into the kitchen.
“Hello, love,” she said. “Had a good sleep? I’m just finishing off that little pullover I was doing for Tom. Shame I couldn’t get it done before he and Gracie went off – they grow so fast I can’t keep up. I suppose I’ll have to post it to Canada now. Goodness knows how much that’ll cost and how long it’ll take to get there. He’ll probably be too big for it by the time he gets it.”
“He’ll be pleased to know his mum’s thinking of him, though,” said Gordon, sitting down beside her.
“Shall I fetch you something to eat, dear?”
“No, not just yet, thanks.”
“That’s all right. All this night work must play havoc with your system. I mean, you’re home from work but it’s not tea time, you’ve just got out of bed but it’s not breakfast time, and it’s dinner time now but you’re not ready for it yet. Not to worry, though: it’s in the oven. It’ll keep.”
“Thanks, love. How was the wireless last night? Did it work all right?”
“Oh, yes. Thanks for fixing it. I listened to Ambrose, like I said, and Evelyn Dall – they said she was a croonette. Have you ever heard such a ridiculous word? Maybe it’s supposed to mean she’s a brunette who croons, but you can’t tell what colour her hair is on the radio, can you? Anyway, she’s got a lovely voice.”
“She’s a blonde, actually,” said Gordon.
“Ah, so you’ve been looking at pictures of her, have you?”
“No, not particularly. I just picked it up somewhere. Same as I picked up the fact that she earns fifty pounds a week while I’m out there risking my life six or seven nights a week for three – as you reminded me yesterday.”
Mavis put her knitting down into her lap.
“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to imply… Look, I’m sorry I got all aerated yesterday, too, about the government and everything. I know you were preoccupied – you were worried about Gracie and Tom. I was probably on edge too, thinking about them, but I was trying to stop you feeling so anxious.”
“I know, love. Thanks. I was worried about that woman, too – the dead one we found. I’m going to have to go and see DI Jago about it; there’s no two ways about it. I’ll go on Monday and be done with it.”
He got up and paced the floor to one end of the room and back.
“I need to get out,” he said. “Get some fresh air and clear my head.”
He took a step towards the passage, but as he did so there was a loud knocking at the front door.
He stopped, then strode briskly down the passage and opened the door. A man he didn’t recognize was standing on the pavement, facing him. The caller looked odd, at least in the sense that he wasn’t the kind of man Gordon would expect to see in Liverpool Road on a Saturday afternoon. It was his clothes – bowler hat, wing collar and black coat. He held a leather attaché case with both hands in front of him. He looked official, and he looked uneasy.
“Mr Price?” asked the stranger.
“Yes,” said Gordon.
“My name is Jackson and I work for the borough council. May I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” said Gordon. He led the man down the passage and into the kitchen. “Mavis, we’ve got a visitor.”
Mavis stowed her knitting beneath the chair and moved quickly to the table to remove a pile of ironing, then pulled out a chair for the man to sit on.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said. “We were just, er…”
She glanced at Gordon. He could see distress in her eyes.
“Good afternoon,” said the man. “Mrs Price?”
“Yes,” replied Mavis.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr and Mrs Price. I’m a welfare officer with the council, and I’ve been asked to visit you by the local education authority –”
Gordon interrupted him.
“If it’s about Tom and Gracie not being at school, it’s because they’ve been evacuated. They’ve gone to Canada with the Children’s Overseas Reception Board. It’s all been done properly, so the council should already know.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jackson, “that’s not what it’s about. Do sit down, please, and you too, Mrs Price.”
Gordon sat down. Mavis sat close beside him, clutching his hand with hers.
“I’m afraid I have some bad –”
Mavis gave a low gasp, her voice little more than a breath.
“No!”
“Some bad news,” said Jackson. “The very worst news, and there’s no easy way I can say this, but I must. It’s been confirmed that the City of Benares, the ship on which your children were travelling to Canada, was torpedoed and sunk by a U-boat last Tuesday night when it was still about six hundred miles from land. There were a hundred and two children on board, of whom eighty-nine were lost. I’m very sorry to have to tell you your children were not among the survivors.”
Mavis stared at him, her face at first numb and uncomprehending, then slowly breaking into a contortion of grief. Tears welled from her eyes, and a hushed wail seemed to rise from somewhere deep within her, growing steadily louder. She twisted round on her chair and threw herself onto Gordon’s chest, her arms clinging to him. He could feel deep sobs racking her body. He felt numb too. He didn’t know what to do.
Jackson shifted awkwardly in his chair, glancing around as if in search of more words to say.
“The authorities wanted to inform all the parents as soon as possible,” he said, “and so they arranged for people like myself to bring the news in person. Letters would be too slow, and it was judged that receipt of a telegram would be too shocking. I’m afraid the details are likely to be in the newspapers by Monday morning, so we acted as quickly as possible to notify you. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said Gordon quietly. “You’re only doing your job. It’s not your fault.” He stroked his wife’s hair absently as she wept in his arms. “Are you sure this is right? There hasn’t been some mistake? There are mistakes sometimes, aren’t there?”
Jackson shook his head.
“I’m sorry: only thirteen of the children survived, and they’ve all been identified. Your children are not among them.”
Gordon stared at him emptily, as though every shred of strength in his body had drained away.
“But Tom – he was only seven. He can’t die when he’s only seven. We were going to play cricket together. I was going to teach him how to make things, how to mend cars. We were going to go out for a drink together when he grew up. I was going to see Gracie grow into a beautiful young woman and walk her down the aisle one day… She hasn’t even had ten years… How could anyone do that to them?”
Mavis pulled herself away from him.
“Stop it!” she said. “There must be a mistake. The Germans don’t kill children in cold blood – not my children. They wouldn’t sit there and deliberately sink a ship with a hundred children in it. Tell me it’s a mistake. Gordon, make him tell me it’s a mistake!”
Gordon slowly shook his head.
“No, love. It’s war. They wouldn’t have done it in the old days, but I remember back in the last war when they sank the Lusitania – that’s when all the rules got torn up. Now anything goes. A U-boat will sink anything it can, no matter who’s on board.”
“But look at what Hitler did for children – he made them strong and healthy, well fed, gave them hope and confidence about the future. You could see it in the newsreels. He loved them, and they worshipped him. This can’t be his doing. It must be people lower down, bad men, like the captain of that U-boat. Hitler will punish him – you’ll see.”
“I don’t think so, love,” said Gordon. “Maybe we just never cottoned on that what we saw was what Hitler wanted us to see. There were prob
ably plenty of other kids in Germany who didn’t look all fresh-faced and eager like the ones in the films.”
Mavis began to sob again.
“We should never have sent them. We should have kept them here and protected them. If we hadn’t sent them they’d still be alive.”
“We can’t know that,” said Gordon gently. “They might have been killed right here in their own beds. It was the right decision to send them away. We couldn’t know what would happen.”
“But at least we’d have gone together. It’s not right for children to die before their parents. I’m so sorry, Gordon: I persuaded you they should go. It’s all my fault. My babies…”
Jackson rose from his chair. His hands were tense as they gripped the handle of his attaché case.
“Yes, Mr Jackson,” said Mavis, her voice now cold. “You’d better go home now. There’s nothing you can do here, and nothing you can say. Just go away, please. You’ve knocked on my door, and I’ve lost everything that means anything in my life.”
CHAPTER 17
Jago picked his way through the chattering crowd with a drink in each hand: a gin and tonic for Angela and a pint of mild and bitter for himself. He saw she had found somewhere to sit – at one of the small tables scattered around the perimeter of a large hall, presumably brought in as part of its temporary conversion into a venue for dancing. Someone must have taken some of the electric lights out, too, judging by how shadowy the room was – the kind of low lighting that people liked for a dance these days, he supposed. On the far side a dance band was playing “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” to an improvised dance floor packed with slowly dancing couples, the men almost all in the blue-grey uniform of the RAF and the women a mixture of WAAFs and civilians. He was surprised that the tempo wasn’t more vigorous, given how young most of the dancers were – perhaps they’d had a few more energetic numbers before he and Angela arrived.
