by John Wilson
– Adam?
Her tone put him on edge.
– Yes?
– I know we weren’t planning to go up to Edenbridge until Tuesday but isn’t travelling on Christmas Eve leaving it a little late? Can’t we go up on Monday? I do miss Deborah and she is so anxious for us to come.
He froze.
– No! It’s out of the question. It can’t be done.
– Why on earth not?
– I … I … I need to be in London on Monday.
– Don’t be ridiculous. Why?
This is going to be the best I can come up with.
– There’s some urgent work on the Bateman case. It can’t wait. Something doesn’t make sense. I need to go to Romford.
– Romford?! Why can’t it wait until the New Year?
– We can go first thing on Tuesday. I promise.
– Adam! I’m getting tired of this. It’s not as though you’re busy. You’re spending more time in the Temple than you are with me. Why didn’t you come home on Wednesday night?
He had managed to avoid talking about this during the uncomfortable silences of Thursday evening.
– It wasn’t deliberate. I got caught out by the raids. We’ll go first thing on Tuesday, I promise. I still have some Christmas shopping to do.
– Oh, do what you like! I’m going up on Monday!
She stood suddenly and swept up the cards.
– Don’t forget to read your daughter’s letter to you! She names the books she wants us to bring.
Her eyes were bright with the luminosity of tears and she grimaced – holding back her thoughts and her emotions; then she turned away and left the kitchen.
****
The khaki shirt rubbed at the back of his neck. His daughter’s room was almost as she had left it. He made a pile of the books named in her letter and ran his fingers over her curly handwriting:
– Oh, Mummy and Daddy. I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you so and I’m so looking forward to Christmas …
He stood by her bed and looked around him, forcing himself to try and remember everything about it: the pale blue walls, her little bookshelf and the smell of lavender. There was a sheet of paper pinned to the wall that he had never noticed before: a little painting of a black and white cat curled up on a bed. She’d written the word “Socks” underneath it …
He looked out of her bedroom window at the sparse rectangle of garden. Everything seemed to be retreating from him.
****
Bright sunlight lay in bands across the bed, broken up by the curtains at the hotel window. Julia was covered only by a sheet. It was a bright April day during the Phoney War and the last time he would be able to sign himself in as Wilson. He sensed an uncomfortable edge to things:
– May I ask you a hypothetical question?
A narrowing of her eyes – hesitancy and apprehension.
– … Yes.
– If we weren’t both happily married in our thirties and with children, would you marry me?
She started then, her eyes widened and she threw back her head and laughed.
– Yes! Of course! Yes …Yes …
Chapter Eighteen
(Monday 23rd December 1940)
Bateman had lied to him.
How, when and where had Marjorie Bateman died?
These were the questions that had brought Adam to Romford Town Hall on Monday morning. That and the need to spend one more day in London. He sat under the watchful eye of a town hall official with the contents of the manila file spread out before him – five sheets of hurried clerical writing chronicling Mrs Bateman’s last hours. A one-pound bribe had bought him an hour with the notes of the inquest.
How, when and where?
Bateman had lied about the when and the where. He might even have lied about the how.
The story had emerged prosaically. There had been four witnesses: Bateman himself, who identified the body, and Graham and Victoria McKechnie. The fourth witness was a police officer. Bateman and the McKechnies had all apparently been in the vicinity of the accident. He’d said nothing about this in conference. If there had been the level of animosity between them that Bateman had described, why were they all together?
The “how” of the accident seemed to be clear. It was as Bateman had told him in conference. Marjorie had been run down by a car after the blackout. He and the McKechnies were at one in their description of what had happened. They had gone to the cinema together and then visited a public house afterwards for a drink before home. They had all been a little tipsy and they had been laughing and joking together when Marjorie made to cross the road. The next thing they heard – they were all clear about this – was a heavy thud and a scream and then the sound of a car accelerating away. The driver was never traced.
But the “how” played havoc with the “when”. Bateman had told him that the accident occurred when he was on his way home from work. He hadn’t been there when it happened. And yet, his evidence was quite clear on this. Marjorie had died at the scene. The coroner’s verdict put the time of death at about 11.15 p.m. So Bateman had lied to him about the time of death, about his whereabouts and about the precise circumstances of his wife’s demise.
How? When? Where?
Adam took the crystal obelisk from his overcoat pocket and turned it over in his hand examining the faults deep inside it. He had been careful to check his instructions as to where Bateman lived. A small house in Seven Kings. But the accident had apparently taken place in a street near the centre of Ilford. It may only be a matter of about a mile away from her home but a mile during the blackout was a long way. Perhaps that was where they had all gone to the cinema?
Where did the McKechnies live? There was another surprise. They had been bombed out. They had given their address as a school hall. Bateman had said nothing about this either. There was nothing in his instructions to suggest this. What had the petition said? He was sure there had been no mention of a school hall. Adam remembered what Pemberton had said the previous week:
Poor Bateman. His dear wife is lying dead in the road and he’s in bed with Mrs McKechnie.
He felt in his overcoat pocket for the Further and Better Particulars picked up from Chambers that morning, and unfolded them. The date of Marjorie’s death was there as a date when adultery took place. Although he hadn’t seen it he felt sure that Victoria’s diary would contain the letters ABC on that day. It didn’t make any sense. If Graham McKechnie thought his wife was committing adultery on the day in question, why had everyone, apparently, behaved in the way that the inquest notes seemed to suggest? If they had been at the pictures and then the pub in the hours leading up to the tragedy, how could it be that Bateman would have had the time – or the opportunity – to commit adultery?
Adam had been there for forty-five minutes and the clerk was beginning to drum on his desk with a pencil. He had had little time to take in Marjorie Bateman’s injuries so he took some hurried notes about these and details of the address of the accident and the school hall, then he handed the file back and left the building. It had been a worthwhile exercise – insofar as anything was worthwhile now: Bateman had been lying to him. The “when” and the “where” did not fit with the “how”. The “when” and the “where” had been confirmed by the police officer. Of course, Bateman could have been lying about the “how”. And if he had been lying about the “how”, then Graham and Victoria McKechnie had been lying as well. And why would Graham McKechnie be making these allegations of adultery and running up these legal costs if what he was saying through his lawyers was untrue? He was a bombed-out insurance clerk. The more he thought about it the less sense it made.
****
Jackson was still outside the Town Hall doing his best to hide behind a tree. He was reading an old copy of the Sunday Express. Adam saw his eyes in the gap between the paper and his hat and felt a strange fondness for this absurd man.
After he had comprehensively given him the slip the previous F
riday, Adam knew that the private detective would be waiting to follow him when he arrived at Chambers that morning and – beyond a detour into the Temple Church to leave a note under the cross-legged knights when Jackson wisely stayed outside – that had been the case.
Adam had made no attempt to lose him as he walked briskly out of the Temple and onto Fleet Street before making off towards Liverpool Street station. There had been crowds at the station as he made his way to the ticket counter and he felt Jackson’s presence grow closer behind him and shivered slightly as he asked the old man behind the glass for a return ticket to Romford. His voice was so loud he surprised himself. Jackson could not have failed to hear that. He headed towards the platforms and when he was far enough way, looked back to see the corpulent detective leaning over the ticket desk as he bought his own tickets. It had all been far too easy.
He had remembered to check an old railway timetable before he left home so that he could count the number of stops before it was time for him to get off. The absence of station signs was intended to confuse the enemy but it also made things very difficult for commuters. Jackson hadn’t had the opportunity to plan ahead and at every stop Adam would look out of his window to see the low-brimmed hat leaning out as Jackson anxiously scanned the platforms for his quarry. He breathed more deeply. If the man had managed to stay with him this far he could ignore him – certainly until the afternoon. It was imperative that he was still following him during the afternoon. The afternoon! Suddenly his plan seemed not only deranged but far more destructive than he was able to imagine. He tried not to think of the consequences, but the nausea returned and he felt his gorge rising. He had remembered a clean handkerchief. Beads of sweat prickled out on him despite the cold.
As he had stepped down from the train he told himself to ignore Jackson and trust him to continue following. It was a relief nonetheless to see him being conspicuously inconspicuous behind an oak tree. He thought he would take him on a walk through Romford market. He had some Christmas shopping to do. He had just over eighty pounds left from the money withdrawn from his bank on Friday. Almost half of the life savings that had so manifestly failed to impress Julia in Hamleys. Ten pounds had been given to a sullen Catherine for her journey up to Edenbridge and other sums had been spent on train fares and bribes. He would need to spend a lot more during the afternoon.
****
In the market he bought a black and white kitten for his daughter and a cage to put it in – and a straw hat for Catherine. It was a bit summery but it was the best he could do given what was available. Jackson was standing behind a clothing stall pretending to examine some shirts. It was all too easy.
Chapter Nineteen
(Monday 23rd December 1940)
Jackson could feel the beginnings of an erection. It was all too easy. The only tricky bit had been the train journey, but fortunately Falling had been as lost as he was without the station signs and had to look out of the window at every stop to check where he was. He felt a growing excitement. Falling was behaving erratically. He was prickling with tension, and Jackson had noticed a decided tremor in his left hand when he was paying for his train ticket. He was carrying an awful lot of money. Long experience had taught him that these were all the signs of a man about to make a mistake. And something was out of the ordinary – if Falling had thought that a detour to Romford would give him the slip, he was wrong. Clearly he felt safe now. It was only a matter of time.
He was also clearly developing something of a religious mania. He had gone into the Temple Church before the journey and now, on his return to Chambers, he had visited again. It was only three thirty and there were no services on. Only guilt could explain his behaviour.
Jackson had used the train journeys to write up his notes. Pemberton was going to be very pleased with him. And now Falling was off again. Jackson watched as he trudged back up Inner Temple Lane. His overcoat was too big for him and he had a blue notebook sticking out of one pocket and a set of papers – red ribbon hanging down – out of the other. And he was carrying a kitten in a cage in one hand and a straw hat in the other. Jackson wondered whether the man was going mad. It didn’t matter – a deranged man was easier to follow.
They had a long wait on Holborn station and it was past four thirty when they reached Green Park. Jackson had known that sooner or later they would end up there. Pemberton had ostentatiously announced to his wife that he would be stuck in court all day and would then be working late in Chambers in preparation for the Christmas break. They hadn’t worked out how Mrs Pemberton was able to communicate with Falling, but somehow she did. She would think that she was going to be free to go to the hotel. They already had enough evidence, but to have an eye-witness account of the two of them meeting would leave them with no way out.
On the tube journey Falling had balanced the straw hat on his head and was talking to the kitten, pushing his fingers through the bars – and chain-smoking. The tremor in his left hand was more pronounced and there was visible sweat breaking over his face. Watching from behind his newspaper Jackson almost felt sorry for him. He was painfully thin and engulfed by his overcoat. As the day had gone on he had been seized by ever more frequent coughing fits and would hold a bloodied handkerchief to his mouth – to cover his embarrassment as much as anything else.
Dusk had fallen by the time they emerged outside Green Park station. Blackout covers were going up on the shop windows. Jackson relaxed – it was going to be even easier to follow Falling now that darkness had come. It was a short walk down to the Stafford from here. Then he would give them a few minutes to settle down before going into question the Reception clerk.
But Falling didn’t head for the Stafford. He was going in the wrong direction altogether. Jackson felt a puzzled disappointment rising in him. Falling was walking down Piccadilly towards Hyde Park Corner, slightly swinging the cat in its cage and carrying the straw hat again in his left hand. He didn’t seem to care if he was followed. Perhaps they met somewhere away from the hotel? Suddenly, Falling was gone.
Jackson panicked and began to run. So far he had gathered nothing of real value and his whole day may have been wasted. Falling must have turned into one of the side streets. He reached the point where he had last seen his suspect and realised with a sigh of relief that the man had turned into White Horse Street. He could see him again drifting up the lane. And then he realised, with a mixture of disgust and disappointment, where Falling was going – and what that meant. Shepherd Market.
He edged his way up the street behind his man, hugging the walls. A strange fascination overcame him. So intent was he on watching the retreating silhouette – the cat cage and straw hat swinging by his sides – that he tripped over a foot protruding from a doorway.
– ‘Ere! Watch it mate. What do you think you’re doing?!
A young woman with too much make-up was leaning there smoking a cigarette.
– Very sorry. Didn’t see you.
– You should bloody well look where you’re going.
– Please. Keep your voice down.
The wrong thing to say.
– Don’t tell me what to do! I’ll be as loud as I like!
– Please. I’m a private detective. I’m trying to follow someone.
– Private detective!
She was shouting now.
– Now I’ve heard it all. I know what you are! Well, I’m not impressed. It’ll cost you the same as it would cost anyone else!
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Falling disappearing out of sight. Further argument with the woman would be pointless. It was better to get away from the source of the commotion. Jackson hoofed it to the other side of the street and resumed the chase – there were other women to avoid and he was more careful in his progress along the wall.
It was getting very dark. The street was narrow and no light emerged from the houses. Falling was no more than a black shape ahead of him. He had put down the cage and balanced the straw hat on top of it, and he was tal
king with a woman. Jackson could see that she was slender and that her clothes appeared to be well cut, but other than that she was beyond identification in the darkness. Surely Mrs Pemberton would not choose to meet him here? Falling was reaching into his inside pocket. Jackson saw him produce his wallet and rifle through it. He was sure now that it was not Mrs Pemberton. But surely this was just as damning …? If it didn’t get Mr Pemberton a divorce it would surely end Falling’s marriage.
They were coming back towards him – walking slightly apart from one another – the cat cage and the straw hat swinging again in Falling’s hands. He heard mewlings of hunger. Jackson retreated back onto Piccadilly ready to resume following his suspect. But he’d already guessed where the man was heading.
Falling and the woman walked back up Piccadilly and then crossed the road, passing the Ritz before passing down into St James’s Street and then into St James’s Place. They were going to the Stafford Hotel.
Jackson waited for ten minutes before entering the hotel. Subdued lighting and an air of dilapidated elegance greeted him. There was no one there except an old man in a liveried uniform studying the Racing Post behind the reception desk. Jackson approached him waving a ten shilling note.
– Sorry to disturb you but do you mind if I ask you a few questions?
– Sure mate. Ask away.
The old man took the note from him.
– A man came in here with a woman a few minutes ago. He was carrying a kitten in a cage.
– It’s not against the law.
– Can I have a look at the register?
– Help yourself.
Falling had written his name and his address there just as before.
