Fifth Column

by Mike Hollow

  “And your husband?”

  “What about him?”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Celia stared ahead through the windscreen into the unbroken darkness of the blackout.

  “What’s to say? I haven’t seen him for a year or more. We met in 1937 when I was up in the Midlands visiting my sister – we’re both from Ilford originally, but she moved away. She took me to a dance in Wolverhampton – that’s where he was living – and I met him there. Seemed a nice bloke, had some kind of factory job. Right charmer, he was, really. Anyway, I fell for him, and the following year we got married, in a lovely old church in Wolverhampton – St Luke’s, it was – on the seventeenth of February 1938, the nearest Saturday we could get to Valentine’s Day. It was very romantic. But then straight after the wedding we moved down here, because Richard got a new job. I should’ve known it wouldn’t work when I first clapped eyes on him – he wasn’t the settling down type. The Wolverhampton Wanderer, that’s what I used to call him. After the football club, you know: Wolverhampton Wanderers?”

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the football team.”

  “He had wandering hands, you see. And a roving eye, too – and I don’t think that was all that roved. He had a tendency to go off somewhere without telling me, then come back a couple of days later with some cock-and-bull story. I don’t know how he got away with it at work – probably just told them he was sick or something. Anyway, in June last year he went off again, and after a while I realized he wasn’t coming back. We’d only been married sixteen months. I haven’t seen him since, and for all I know he could be dead.”

  “Did you report this to the police? That he was a missing person?”

  “No. What’s the point? I was used to it, you see, and I suppose I just knew somewhere inside that he’d left me. He was too slippery to get into serious trouble, anyway: gift of the gab, you know, always had an answer for everything and could talk his way out of anything. For all I know he’s probably talked his way into someone else’s bed by now. All in all, I reckon I’m better off without him. I can look after myself. I’ve got a nice little job and I can pay my way, and I’m having more fun now than I ever did.”

  “Does your husband have any family?”

  “Parents both died before I met him. He had two brothers, but both died in the war: one was in the Army and died at Mons, the other was in the Navy – he survived the war but then went to fight the Bolsheviks with the Baltic Squadron and died in 1919.”

  “And what about Richard – did he serve in the war?”

  “Oh yes, he was a bit of a hero, or so he says. He was in the Navy, in a destroyer at Jutland. The ship was hit and he was nearly killed, but he rescued a wounded officer, even though he was wounded himself. He was mentioned in despatches, apparently. Mind you, he promised to love me and cherish me till death us do part too, but that never happened, so perhaps I should have taken all that heroics stuff with a pinch of salt.”

  She laughed with a throaty rasp and pulled on her cigarette, then tossed the stub out of the window.

  “I mean, he might have just made the whole thing up, mightn’t he?”

  “And can you tell me about your own family?” said Jago.

  “I haven’t got much family, really,” she said. “My parents are both gone now, same as Richard’s, and we didn’t have any children. My only family is my sister Vera, up in the Midlands, and I don’t see much of her. She’s not married.”

  “Thank you. Can we go back to that photograph now? I’m interested in why it may have upset Mary Watkins.”

  “That’s the Mary who was at the dance, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sure I don’t know. It was just an ordinary photo, and she didn’t say anything at the time.”

  “Can you show it to me?”

  “No, I seem to have lost it. I obviously had it in my handbag at the dance, but a couple of days later I noticed it wasn’t there any more. I must have dropped it somewhere, I suppose. No great loss, though.”

  “Can you tell me what was in the photo, then?”

  “Yes, that’s easy. As I said to those two girls, if I’m getting a bit more attention than I want from any of the lads at these dances and I’m not interested I flash my wedding ring at them, and if that doesn’t work I pull out the photo. It was a wedding photo, you see – my wedding.”

  “And what was Mary’s reaction when you showed it to her?”

  “Well, I haven’t thought about it since then, but now you mention it, I suppose it was a bit odd, the way she reacted. It was like she was shocked or surprised or something. I didn’t ask why, though, and she didn’t say anything. She just sort of went quiet.”

  “Was there anything unusual in the photo?”

  “No, it was just me in my wedding dress – a lovely white silk, it was. Lucky I got married before the war started, I suppose – I think they’re using all the silk for parachutes now. And my husband was in it too, of course: wearing his black suit and looking like he wasn’t sure he was supposed to be there. That’s just my mind going back, of course: I don’t recall thinking that at the time.”

  She turned in her seat to face Jago and looked him in the eye.

  “To be honest, I suppose even then his mind was wandering, on his own wedding day. But he’s still my lawful wedded husband, unless he’s dead. If you find out he’s dead you will let me know, won’t you?”

  Jago realized his mind was wandering too, at the thought of someone being betrayed in this way.

  “Er, of course,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful. Tell me: do you have any other photos of yourself and your husband at your wedding?”

  “No, that was the only one. An incendiary bomb got the rest. Not that I minded much – the quality was terrible anyway. Richard got one of his mates to take some snaps with an old Box Brownie – that was all we could afford. The only reason why I still had that one was that I carried it round with me in my bag. All right if I go now?”

  “Yes, but I wonder if you could just leave your address with me in case I need to ask any more questions.”

  “Of course. It’s 357 Shrewsbury Road, in East Ham. I’ve got a cosy little upstairs flat now, with a nice view out the back window of Plashet Park. It’s very quiet – just like living in the country.”

  “And where do you work?”

  “Ilford.”

  “The town or the company?”

  “I know. It’s confusing, isn’t it? I work for the company – Ilford Limited, the film people. The council tried to stop them using the name but didn’t get anywhere, so now they just have to lump it. I’m in the sales department, but nothing grander than the typing pool, so don’t ask me anything about photography. Anyway, that’s all I can tell you about Richard, and it’s certainly enough for me for one evening. I don’t expect I’ll see him again, but believe you me, if he does turn up he’ll get a piece of my mind.”

  CHAPTER 19

  It was Sunday morning. Jago had secured a table in the corner of the police canteen and was enjoying a spot of peace and quiet as he ate his breakfast. Taking the old eiderdown into the shelter had proved to be a good idea. At least he hadn’t been so cold, although the night’s violent noises had kept him awake for longer than he’d have wished.

  He dipped a piece of fried bread into his fried egg and chewed on it. He wanted to do some calm thinking before the day got too busy, but his mind was agitated, and he knew why. It was about Dorothy. It wasn’t just the bombs and artillery that had kept him awake – it was what he’d seen at the dance. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d felt when he saw her in that man’s arms, the look of contentment on her face, the kiss she gave him at the end. Nor could he stop thinking about his shocked realization that he’d wanted to kiss her himself. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. You’re getting carried away. We’re friends, that’s all, and pretty new friends at that. We barely know each other, and I’m acting as if I own her.

  H
e thought back to their first meeting just a few weeks ago, and the apprehension he’d felt as he began to find himself liking her. It’s asking for trouble, he thought, getting involved with a woman, especially a strong woman – and especially at my time of life.

  What should he do? He had no right to ask her personal questions about men she chose to dance with. Besides, as far as he could tell she hadn’t seen him – the place had been crowded and the lighting none too bright. Best to let sleeping dogs lie? There was nothing to be gained from digging deeper. Twenty years a policeman, and three-quarters of that time a detective, had left him an instinctive questioner. He must curb that instinct; he mustn’t make the mistake of interrogating Dorothy on her personal life and alienating her for ever. None of your business, he told himself.

  And yet he couldn’t shake the desire to know who the man was, even though it was scary to think that if he tried to find out it could mean the end of his friendship with Dorothy. He tried to put out of his mind the affectionate scene he’d witnessed, but the confusing sense of pain wouldn’t go away. His mind told him it was foolish and irrational, that she’d made no promises to him and he’d asked none of her, but there was a dark and secret place, deep down, where he couldn’t suppress the feeling that in some way she’d betrayed him.

  Get a grip on yourself, he thought. It’s simple, you fool – you’re a caveman. You’ve met a woman who’s attractive, so you want her for yourself. Now you’ve seen her with another man and your primeval instinct says he’s a rival. In fact you’re not even a caveman, you’re an animal: it’s you or him, and your survival instinct wants to fight him off. But no, he thought, it’s not as simple as that. I’m not driven by an urge to rush out and fight another man for a woman. What I feel is more like a bitter-sweet tenderness, a sad sense of loss.

  He was still feeling tossed about by these thoughts when Cradock joined him.

  “Morning, guv’nor.”

  “Morning, Peter. How are you today? You look as though you haven’t slept a wink.”

  “Bit of a bad night, sir – didn’t sleep well. All that noise. How did you get on at your dance?”

  “It was crowded and noisy, and I felt old – but I did meet Celia, the lady with the photograph. I’m not sure whether it moves things forward much, though. The question remains: who would want to do away with Mary Watkins, and why? What do you think?”

  Jago welcomed the opportunity to set his earlier reflections to one side. For once, the thought of trying to get DC Cradock to think intelligently and analytically about a case in the light of the evidence gathered to date was an attractive proposition. A chance to look at a problem objectively and dispassionately.

  “What do we know about her, except that someone decided to strangle her?” he said.

  “Well,” said Cradock, as he shook salt onto his breakfast, “not much family to speak of. Didn’t get on with her sister. Seemed to be good at her job. No problems at work, if that Hornby woman’s to be believed. Just another hardworking spinster, except…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it sounds like she was partial to having a bit of fun on the side, doesn’t it? Enjoyed a drink or two when she wasn’t at work, and even had some kind of affair with a man. And then there was that business at the post-mortem – what the doctor said. Spinster she might have been, but perhaps not quite as respectable as she’d have had people believe.”

  Cradock reached for the bottle of HP Sauce that stood between them on the table, unscrewed the cap, then slapped the bottom of the bottle with the palm of his hand several times to send a quantity of the contents spurting over half of his breakfast. Jago paused until the ceremony was completed.

  “She seems to have been a bit short on friends, though, doesn’t she?” he said. “Angela’s the only one we’ve been able to find, and if it weren’t for their occasional drinks we’d know next to nothing about Mary’s private life.”

  “Yes. So a bit of a loner, perhaps?” said Cradock. “She certainly seems to have been a private person, like Miss Hornby said. And Angela said she didn’t share her secrets – although maybe that’s just because Mary wasn’t as forward as her.”

  “Forward indeed,” said Jago. “She was even chatting me up in the car on the way to the dance.”

  “Really? What did she do?”

  “Never you mind, Peter. I only mention it to put you on your guard – I think she prefers younger men than me if she gets the choice. But let’s get back to Mary.”

  “Okay,” said Cradock. “So Mary kept herself to herself. What if she had something to hide? It could be a reason for someone wanting to murder her.”

  “We haven’t come across any evidence to confirm that, though.”

  “Right. So she’s a bit of a puzzle. We haven’t got much to go on on the family side either.”

  “No, just the sister, Susan,” said Jago. “And I wouldn’t exactly describe them as close, at least judging by what her husband and Angela say. Maybe they’d always been like that – sisters don’t necessarily get on. Or maybe something happened between them to set them against each other.”

  “It certainly seems like Mary wasn’t keen to talk about her,” said Cradock. “She didn’t even tell Angela what her sister’s name was. And George did say he thought Mary must’ve done something to hurt Susan in the past, although I suppose that could’ve been just a guess, if it was before he’d met Susan. The only thing we can definitely say is that George likes a good chat. Doesn’t strike me as the most reliable of witnesses, though.”

  “Yes,” said Jago. “He seemed keen to talk, but not about what we wanted to know. I thought we were going to get his entire life story at one point. I didn’t like his manner either, but I can’t arrest him for that.”

  “And what about that photograph, sir? It’s got to be important, hasn’t it? Did you manage to find out anything more from Celia last night?”

  “Yes – I told her Angela had said she thought Mary looked upset when she saw it. The way Celia described it, Mary looked surprised or shocked. I asked Celia what kind of photo it was and what was in it. She said it was her wedding photo: a picture of her and her husband.”

  “But Angela says that after Mary saw it, she said, ‘He’ll pay for this. He’s a traitor.’ Why would Mary say that if she was talking about Celia’s husband?”

  “We can’t be sure who she was talking about. From what Angela said, it was later that Mary said that, not when she was looking at the photo. She could have been talking about anyone.”

  “Did Celia have the photo with her last night?”

  “Unfortunately not. She said she’d lost it. The last time she saw it was at the dance, when she put it back in her bag, and then a couple of days later she noticed it wasn’t there any more. Now, when we were walking from Rita’s café to the station, Dorothy said –”

  He noticed Cradock’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly, and corrected himself.

  “Miss Appleton said she’d seen Mary take a photograph out of either Celia’s or Angela’s handbag. If Celia says she put it back in her own bag after she’d shown it to them, it’s possible that Mary stole it from Celia that evening. I wonder why she’d do that.”

  “Search me,” said Cradock.

  “Quite,” said Jago. “Look, I want you to get over to Mary’s place and see if you can find any photos that fit the description: a wedding photo of a bride and groom.”

  “Will do,” said Cradock.

  He returned to the task of finishing his breakfast. Jago watched him eating, hunched over his plate and loading food into his mouth – like a stoker feeding a furnace at Beckton gasworks, he thought.

  “Peter, have you ever thought you might have a marshal’s baton in your knapsack?”

  Cradock suspended his eating project for long enough to give him a blank look.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s what they used to say in Napoleon’s army: even the humblest private might one day be a field marshal. Do you ever think one da
y you might get to be the Chief Constable of the CID?”

  “Course not,” said Cradock. “They’re all retired colonels, aren’t they?”

  “How about the next job down, then – a CID area superintendent?”

  “Can’t say I have, sir, no.”

  “Someone’s got to do the job, you know. So just in case you do consider that post sometime in the future, may I give you some advice?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Learn how to eat. You look like a prisoner, wolfing it down before a fellow inmate can steal it off your plate. Eat like a free man, someone who’s in control of his own destiny and his own dinner. Sit up straight, put your fork in your left hand and your knife in your right, and try to eat with a little grace.”

  “Sorry, sir, I don’t think I had your upbringing.”

  “My upbringing? That’s nothing to do with it. It was the Army – when they decided they needed me for an officer in the last war. I wasn’t their first choice, you understand, but it got to the point where so many of the proper upper-class officer types had been killed off that they needed Other Ranks like me to plug the gaps. I knew all about fighting – rifle, bayonet, grenade or bare hands – but that didn’t make you an officer. No, they sent us to an Officer Cadet Battalion and taught us the two most important things for an officer to know. What do you think they were?”

  “No idea, sir – strategy and tactics?”

  “No. It was how to be jolly positive about getting killed for your country, and how to use the right knife and fork. I tell you, if you want to get on, learn how to eat properly.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Cradock. He pulled himself into a more upright position and fiddled with his cutlery. “Thank you, sir.”

  He put his knife and fork down again almost immediately.

  “Talking of getting on, sir, what about that Everson fellow and his missing stock? I imagine he’ll be doing quite well out of the war if he’s got special contracts from the War Office, and he won’t want them getting cold feet about him. What do you intend to do about that stuff that’s been going missing? He seemed a bit worked up about it.”