Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  He’d picked her up in the Riley and driven straight over, but RAF Hornchurch was about a fifteen-mile journey from West Ham by road, and by the time they’d arrived the dance was already well under way. He’d not been to the station before, and was surprised to find how close it was to the little Essex town of Hornchurch, on the south side of Romford. Knowing what a pasting the airfields in south-east England had taken from the Luftwaffe in recent months, he wondered what the locals thought about having such a target on their doorsteps.

  The light was fading as they’d approached, and all he could see of the station was the dark outlines of anonymous buildings, while in the fields that skirted it he made out the ghostly shapes of the disused cars and trucks that had been scattered across them to prevent enemy aircraft landing. He wondered whether the government would find enough rusty old Austin Sevens in the country to defend every potential landing ground.

  He reached the table where Angela was sitting and placed the drinks on the table. Angela picked hers up immediately.

  “Well, thank you, Inspector,” she said. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” said Jago, lifting his pint of beer.

  “Very kind of you to bring me,” said Angela, “although I must say the last thing I thought I’d be doing tonight was going to a dance with a detective.”

  “I appreciate your willingness to help at such short notice.”

  “You’re welcome. But let me get this straight. You just want me to keep an eye out for that woman, Celia whatever-her-name-is, that Mary and I met here the other week, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I want to ask her one or two questions, and since we don’t know her surname or where she lives, I’m just hoping she might come along this evening.”

  “Hoping she’s a regular, like, yes?”

  “That’s it. So if you spot her, just let me know.”

  “I won’t be getting her into trouble, will I?”

  “No, it’s just to help me find out something.”

  “And I won’t get into any trouble myself?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “That’s all right, then. Cheers again.”

  Jago was already beginning to wonder what this evening might cost him in drinks – and for how long Angela would be in a fit state to recognize the mysterious Celia if she did turn up.

  “How often do you come to these dances?” he said.

  “Whenever I can, really.”

  “You’re keen on dancing?”

  “Yes, I love it.”

  “And I suppose it’s a chance to meet some young men?”

  “Yes, of course. The way things are these days, with them all being called up, a girl’s got to take any chance she gets. All you find at work now is old men – the young ones are all in the forces, and there’s no big Army or Navy bases round our way, so this is the nearest place you can meet them.”

  “How do they rate as dancing partners?”

  “Well, I have to say I prefer dancing with officers – they wear shoes. Sometimes the other ranks have those heavy boots on, and what they can do to your feet when a bloke doesn’t know how to dance properly is nobody’s business. Still, they’re always pleased to see us – most of them are on the look-out for girls. There’s competition from the WAAFs, of course, but I reckon we can see them off if push comes to shove.”

  “And may I ask if you’ve met anyone special?”

  “I’ve met some nice young RAF boys here, but no one that you’d call special – not in that way. They’re very sweet, but some of them are just kids.”

  Jago was becoming aware that he was probably twice the age of some of the young men on the dance floor.

  “Look,” he said, “I don’t want to cramp your style. I’ll move over to the other side and find somewhere to sit quietly, and then you can get some dances. Just come and find me if you see Celia.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Will do.”

  Jago headed to the far side of the hall as the dancing couples waltzed to a slow arrangement of “Love’s Old Sweet Song”. By the time he got there and looked back, he could see a young airman was already asking Angela for a dance. She was smiling sweetly and accepting. As they walked onto the dance floor together she gave a discreet wave to Jago behind the airman’s back to signal that she knew where to find him.

  He sat down in an empty chair and supped his beer. He was beginning to think this might prove to be a long and uneventful evening when he noticed another RAF man approaching. This one was older and had three blue rings on the cuff of his tunic, so Jago knew he was an officer, but what rank they signified he didn’t know – in his own soldiering days the RAF had still been the Royal Flying Corps and its officers had Army ranks. The man seemed to be heading directly towards him, and when he got to within three or four yards he raised a hand in greeting.

  “Jago!”

  He strode up to the detective and shook his hand firmly.

  “What a surprise to see you. It is you, isn’t it? Why, it must be more than twenty years.”

  Jago searched the officer’s face. To his relief, a name sprang from his memory.

  “Roy Dyers,” he said. “Well I never.”

  “It was just after Christmas 1917, wasn’t it? I arrived in that hospital in France, and you were one of the old hands, I recall. You showed me the ropes, how to get on the right side of the nurses, and then you were sent back to your regiment and left me there to fend for myself. Well, well. I seem to recall you were rather sweet on one of those young American nurses – did anything come of it?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Bad show – still, plenty more fish in the sea, that’s what I always say. Mind you, I’ve never managed to land one myself.” He gave a hearty laugh. “How about you – are you a married man these days?”

  “No, I’ve never married.”

  “Thought as much – you don’t have that harassed look some of the married chaps seem to develop.” He laughed again. “So what do you do for a living? Not still in the Army, I suppose?”

  Jago smiled and shook his head.

  “No, after the war I joined the police. Then later I decided I’d had enough of uniforms and transferred to the CID. Now I’m a detective inspector. But you were in the Army too when I last saw you. Fusiliers, wasn’t it? How did you end up in the air force?”

  “I transferred to the RFC after I’d got out of that hospital. They were desperate for pilots, as you no doubt recall, and I wanted to fly, so I did my training and became a fighter pilot. The war was nearly over by then, of course, but that probably saved my life – we used to reckon a new pilot would have about three weeks to live. When the war ended I decided to stay on, and by then they’d turned us into the Royal Air Force, of course, which is how I ended up in this blue.”

  “Are you still flying? It’s been pretty hellish for the last few months, I should think.”

  “No: too old for that. My flying days ended eight years ago, more’s the pity. These days I fly a desk. I transferred to the Administrative Branch – which curiously enough handles intelligence too, although I’m not involved in that myself – and now I’m head of the Administration Wing for the station here.”

  “Sounds pretty senior – a more exalted rank than when I last saw you, I expect,” said Jago, studying Dyers’ cuffs and looking puzzled.

  “Trying to work out what my rings mean, eh?” said Dyers. “Let me translate – think of a pip and a crown.”

  “A half-colonel, you mean?”

  “Yes, or the equivalent, anyway: wing commander. What it means in practice is that I’m up to my ears in paperwork and I wish I were up above the clouds again. On the positive side, I get involved in organizing things like this evening. Good for morale, and takes the poor chaps’ minds off the nasty business of war for a while.”

  “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

  “Yes, but this is nothing: you should have been here a few weeks ago. We had the Windmill Girls down from the Wes
t End.”

  “From the Windmill Theatre itself?”

  “Yes, they came down on a Saturday evening and did some of their, er, exotic dances. Second time they’ve been – they did a show last Christmas too. Caused a bit of a stir, I can tell you.”

  “I should imagine it did.”

  “The young chaps all loved it. Not the WAAFs, though – they walked out.”

  “I can understand it might not be their cup of tea.”

  “Quite. Nice girls, the WAAFs. I’d do it again, though. Those pilots don’t have much to look forward to. Since France fell, the Germans are only ten minutes’ flying time away in a modern plane, and the Luftwaffe’s got plenty of them.”

  “Do you have Spitfires here?”

  “Yes, thank goodness. I don’t like to think where we’d be if we hadn’t. Trying to hold off Goering with Gloster Gladiators, I shouldn’t wonder – top speed 250 miles per hour, totally out of date now. The Spitfires turned up only just in time, too – we didn’t get our first ones here until February of last year, only six months or so before the blasted war started. I’ve heard pilots call them the perfect plane. They’re a good hundred miles an hour faster than the Gladiator, and the Hurricane’s not far behind.”

  “Faster than the German planes?”

  “There’s not much in it between the Messerschmitt 109 and the Spitfire, so it’s pretty touch and go. We’re going to have to keep making them faster, there’s no doubt about it.”

  “But surely there must be a limit to how fast an aircraft can go?”

  “I suppose so, but I’m sure we can still do a lot better. The bad news is that the Germans may be ahead of us on that front – they’ve been experimenting for years with ideas for some kind of rocket motor that would make planes much faster than anything we see today. The problem is that that kind of engine’s difficult to control, but in the last couple of years their scientists have been having a crack at developing new fuels that could make it possible.”

  “But presumably not aviation spirit – we already use that, don’t we?”

  “Correct. These fuels would be different. There are still some big problems to solve, though – not least the fact that the main chemical used has to be highly concentrated, and that can make it blow up. So don’t think about putting it in your car.”

  Dyers laughed at his own joke, and Jago gave him another friendly smile.

  “Good advice. And what is the chemical?”

  “H2O2,” said Dyers. “Hydrogen peroxide to you.”

  Dyers picked up Jago’s beer glass.

  “I say, your glass is empty. May I get you another drink?”

  “I don’t think so, thanks very much.”

  “In that case you must tootle over here some other time and I’ll stand you one in the officers’ mess.”

  “Or you could come over to me – I’m based at West Ham police station. We could go out for an early drink before the blackout. How about tomorrow?”

  “Jolly good idea,” said Dyers. “I’ll try to get over there by opening time.”

  “Good.”

  Jago looked over Dyers’ shoulder and saw Angela approaching.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. There’s someone I need to speak to.”

  Dyers turned to follow the direction in which Jago was looking and saw her.

  “You sly old dog,” he said. “You didn’t say you had a popsy here with you.”

  “It’s not like that,” said Jago. “She’s helping me with my enquiries.”

  “I bet that’s what all the policemen say.” Dyers grasped his hand and shook it, and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Very good to see you, old man.”

  He strode away as Angela arrived, turning back briefly to wave farewell before disappearing into the crowd.

  “Hello, Angela,” said Jago. “Any sign of Celia?”

  “Sorry, no,” said Angela. “Do you want to go?”

  “Not if you’re enjoying it. We’ll stay a bit longer. If you spot her, just come and tell me, or if you’re with her bring her over to me. I’ll either be somewhere in here or outside getting some fresh air.”

  “Okay,” said Angela. “You’re right – it is getting a bit hot and stuffy in here.”

  Jago thought he detected a hint.

  “Can I get you another drink?”

  “That would be nice. I’ll have another G and T, thanks.”

  Jago headed off towards the temporary bar that had been rigged up at the end of the workshops. The dance floor was still packed with dancers, but as he skirted it the music stopped. The couples stepped apart and applauded the band. He glanced through a gap in the crowd and stopped dead. He didn’t think she could have seen him, because she was some distance away. What’s more, she wasn’t paying much attention to anything else in the room – she was gazing into the eyes of a tall young man in the uniform of an RAF officer, with one ring on his tunic cuff.

  Jago felt a stab of pain and then a confusion of guilt at having seen them, as if he were some kind of voyeur. He ducked back, closer to the wall, but kept watching them. The man put his hands gently on her shoulders, then leaned forward and kissed her on the top of her head. She responded by giving him a peck on the cheek, then hugged him, her head buried in his chest.

  Jago didn’t know the young officer, but there was no mistaking Dorothy. He felt his face flushing as he darted towards the exit.

  CHAPTER 18

  There was the sound of someone tapping on the passenger-side window of the Riley, and the beam of a flashlight shone through it. Jago looked round from the driver’s seat. He could see by the light of the torch it was Angela, and she had someone with her. He got out of the car and walked round to join them.

  “What happened to my drink?” said Angela. “You said you’d get me a G and T, and that was the last I saw of you. Some thanks for helping you out.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jago. “Something cropped up and I couldn’t get back.”

  There was a hint of a slur in Angela’s voice, and he had the impression that she’d not gone short of drinks this evening.

  “Never mind,” she said. “One of those RAF boys got me one instead. It was the devil of a job finding you out here in the blackout, though. You didn’t say you’d be in your car, and if I hadn’t had my torch with me I wouldn’t even have tried to find you – and then you wouldn’t have met Celia.”

  She turned and swung the torch in the direction of a woman who was standing beside and a little behind her.

  “Watch it,” said the woman. “You’re not supposed to wave torches around in the air in the blackout. The Germans’ll see it.”

  “I can’t hear any planes,” said Angela. “Can you? We’re safe for the moment.”

  The woman stepped forward.

  “She said you want to speak to me, Inspector. What’s it all about?”

  “I’d just like to ask you a few questions. It’ll only take a few minutes – do sit in the car, please.”

  “All right if I go back for a last dance or two?” said Angela.

  “By all means,” said Jago. “Then I’ll run you home.”

  Angela wandered back towards the building, her torch playing an erratic pattern on the ground as she walked.

  Jago got back into the car.

  “Good evening, Mrs, er…” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know your surname, and we haven’t been introduced.”

  “It’s Berry – Mrs Celia Berry. And you are?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Jago of West Ham CID. I understand you met Miss Willerson – the young lady who just brought you out to me – at a dance here the Saturday before last.”

  “That’s right – she’s Angela.”

  “Yes. And I believe there was also another young lady with her, called Mary. I’m particularly interested in anything you may remember about Mary.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We
ll, I’m afraid it’s because she was found dead yesterday morning, and we have reason to believe she may have been murdered.”

  “Oh, Lord. Not by one of those lads from the RAF station, I hope.”

  Jago continued without responding to her comment.

  “I’d like you to tell me about Mary, please: anything you remember from that evening at the dance.”

  Celia was silent for a few seconds and then answered.

  “Not a lot, to tell the truth. I remember meeting her and talking to her, but I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Did she give any indication that she was out of sorts, or upset in any way?”

  “I don’t know as I could say. I mean, I’d never met the woman before. We just had a chat at a dance, so I don’t think I would have known if she was out of sorts. She seemed pretty normal to me.”

  Celia opened her handbag and took out a cigarette case.

  “Got a light?”

  Jago struck a match and held it out towards her. She took his hand in hers and guided it to the end of the cigarette she held between her lips.

  “Thanks,” she said, drawing on the cigarette.

  “I’ll open the window for you,” said Jago. He leaned across and pushed the hinged opening in the side screen.

  “Ta,” she said, and blew smoke out into the night. “Craven As – good for sore throats, they say. Want one?”

  “No, thanks, I don’t smoke,” said Jago. “Now, Angela told me that at one point during the evening she saw you showing a photo to Mary, and Mary seemed to get upset. I asked Angela what was in the photo, but she said she was too far away to see it, so I wonder if you can tell me.”

  “Too far away? Are you sure? I may be mistaken, but I thought she was still sitting at the table with me and Mary when I got that photo out. Probably my mistake. Anyway, one of the two of them had seen my wedding ring and asked me if I was married, whether my husband was away with the forces. I laughed and said no, he’s just away – he did a runner. I still wear the ring, but that’s just because it keeps some of these boys’ hands off me. Too much energy, some of them.”