Authors: Laura Wilson
I want to tell Mam what I done, but I can’t do it …
Stratton remembered Davies’s words to him in the car on the way back from the committal. Could he have been referring to something other than the murders? It didn’t seem very likely. If he
was
guilty, then clearly he hadn’t been able to face confessing it to his mother. But it was a very odd thing to say if he wasn’t.
‘What I came to tell you,’ Mrs Davies continued, ‘is that I’m writing to my Member of Parliament to ask about an inquiry. I’ve also written to the Home Secretary. I thought I ought to tell you because John said you were a gentleman. He liked you, Mr Stratton.’
This was said sincerely, without a trace of irony. Humbled, Stratton said, ‘Thank you.’
‘Well …’ Mrs Davies rose and stood, straight-backed and self-contained. ‘I’m sure you’re very busy.’
Stratton said goodbye to Mrs Davies at the station door. As she began to descend the steps, an impulse he was unable to resist made him put a restraining hand on her arm. She looked down at it and then up at his face, frowning slightly. Removing his hand, he said, ‘I am sorry. Very sorry.’ He didn’t – couldn’t – elaborate further, but Mrs Davies appeared not to require this. With a single, emphatic nod that made her tight grey curls bounce, she turned and left.
Leaving West End Central that evening, Stratton felt as furtive and mortified as a man coming out of a knocking shop and onto a street where he might easily meet someone he knows. Logic told him that Davies’s death wasn’t solely his fault. The man had done a great deal to hang himself, Backhouse had lied, and everyone, including the judge, had considered Davies to be guilty. He wondered if Mrs Davies had, initially at least, thought so too. If that were so, he thought, then by now she’d almost certainly convinced herself she’d always been sure of his innocence. He couldn’t blame her for that – in the circumstances, he’d probably have done the same. But then what about what Davies had said in the car …
He’d turned this over and over in his mind during the bus journey home, but reached no conclusions. The house was unlit, and turning on the kitchen light he saw that there was a note lying on the table. Assuming that it must be instructions for heating up whatever was in the saucepan on the stove, he went through to the scullery and poured himself a glass of beer. Staring out of the window into the dark garden, he tried to rehearse what to say to Raymond Benson. At least, he thought, separated by a telephone line, he wouldn’t be able to clobber the bloody man, no matter how strong the urge. Imagining him, sleekly handsome and languid in a velvet smoking jacket, he clenched his fists, but he knew that,
however much he wanted to break the man’s neck, he’d promised Monica – and, he repeated to himself, violence wouldn’t change, or solve, anything. It’d make me feel a whole lot better, though, he thought, grimly.
First things first. Supposing that he ought to try and eat something, at least, he took his beer back to the kitchen and picked up the note.
Dad, I am sorry I have betrayed your trust and let you down, and Mum. I am going to see a friend who can help. Please don’t worry about me. Love, Monica x
Stratton felt sick. What friend? What help? The vision of his beloved daughter being mauled by some seedy struck-off doctor in a back room, or worse – appallingly, horrifyingly worse – encountering Backhouse, was so strong that he felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Backhouse bending over her, panting and sweating with lust, as he pawed at her knickers and …
Stop it!
Hands palm-down on the table and elbows locked, he took several deep breaths. He must not panic. He must find her before … before … No! He must not think about that. Monica wouldn’t allow herself to be drawn into a conversation with a strange man, and certainly not someone like Backhouse – but then Monica, at present, wasn’t her normal, sensible self. She was upset and desperate and he had no idea what she might do. He
had
to find her.
Where to start? His mind raced. Monica had said that she’d only told Pete, but perhaps she had talked to Madeleine as well. They’d always been close, just as Jenny had with Doris. Except, said a voice in the back of his mind, Jenny hadn’t told Doris that she was pregnant, had she? Telling himself that Monica wasn’t Jenny, and that the circumstances were entirely different, he strode into the hall and picked up the telephone.
‘Doris? It’s Ted. Is Monica with you?’
‘Hello, love. We haven’t seen her today … Are you all right? You sound a bit—’
‘Is Madeleine there?’
‘Yes.’ Doris sounded surprised. ‘She’s in the kitchen. But what—’
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was a pause as Doris handed the receiver to her daughter. ‘Hello, Uncle Ted. What is it?’
‘Have you seen Monica today?’
‘No. Not since the night before last … Is there something wrong, Uncle Ted?’
‘Did she say anything to you?’
‘Say anything? No, we just … you know. Just normal things. Why?’
‘If she telephones, can you let me know?’
‘Of course, but … Is she all right?’
‘I’m not sure. Do you know if she’s got any particular friends at work?’
‘Well, she’s mentioned someone called Anne, who works with her doing the make-up, but nothing … I mean, just about funny things that happen, not anything important.’
‘Did she mention a surname?’
‘Not that I remember. She told me about Mrs Calthrop, as well – she said you knew her before, from the war – but that was ages ago. She’s not talked about her recently … I can’t think of anyone else.’
‘Did she mention Raymond Benson?’
‘The film actor? No. I’d remember
that
, Uncle Ted. He’s dreamy.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Stratton, grimly. ‘Could I have another word with your mum?’
There was another pause, as the telephone was handed back to Doris. ‘What’s going on, Ted?’
‘I’m not sure … Look, Doris, Monica’s in trouble and I don’t know where she’s gone. She’s left a note, but … I’m worried she’s done something stupid.’
‘Stupid? What—’
‘She’s pregnant.’
‘Pregnant?’ Doris’s voice was sharp. ‘Do you know anything about
this, Madeleine?’ There was some muttering, and then Doris’s voice again. ‘She says she doesn’t. Are you sure?’
‘It’s what she told me.’
‘Well, it’s the first we’ve heard of it. Is there anything we can do, Ted?’
‘No … just stay by the telephone in case she rings. I need to find her. Is there anyone local she might have gone to – a friend, I mean? Madeleine might know …’
Madeleine came back on the line. ‘I can’t think of anyone, Uncle Ted. I mean, there’s girls from school, but she’s never really had a special friend – if she’d told anyone, it would be me.
‘His niece sounded both shocked and hurt, and Stratton didn’t blame her. ‘All right. But if she does telephone, you will tell me, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will! I hope she hasn’t … I mean, I hope she’s all right.’
‘So do I,’ said Stratton. Putting the receiver down, he rubbed his face. ‘Christ, so do I.’ Returning to the kitchen, he picked up Monica’s note once more, and read it again, trying to make it yield some clue as to where she had gone.
Dad, I am sorry I have betrayed your trust …
But, he thought, it hadn’t been a matter of trusting her; it had simply never occurred to him that anything of this sort might happen. Monica hadn’t betrayed his trust – what she
had
done was to show up, with vile clarity, his utter negligence as a father:
he
was the one who had betrayed
her
.
Chapter Sixty
Stratton fished Benson’s telephone number out of his pocket and rubbed it with his thumb for a moment, staring fixedly at the thing as though expecting its owner to appear before him like a pantomime genie. Then, white-knuckled, he yanked the receiver from its cradle and, jabbing his finger into the relevant holes, began to dial the number.
‘Hadley Green 521—’
‘Mr Benson?’ Cutting off the rich, silky tones, Stratton almost spat the words with the effort of keeping his own voice level.
‘Yes. Who is this, please?’
‘This is Detective Inspector Stratton. Monica Stratton’s father.’
‘I
see
. . .’
Stratton took a deep breath, taking in, with the air, the effortless superiority and poise of the man’s tone. ‘I should bloody well hope you
do
see. I’d like to kick your arse from here to Land’s End.’
‘Steady on, old chap.’
Old chap?
Stratton took another deep breath. ‘Much as I’d like to do that,’ he said, every muscle in his body taut with the strain of maintaining any degree of calm at all, ‘I’m not going to, because I promised my daughter I wouldn’t. The reason I’m telephoning is because Monica has disappeared.’
‘She’s not with you?’
‘Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be asking.’
‘Well, she’s not
here
.’ Benson managed to sound as if this was the most ridiculous idea he’d ever heard in his life.
‘She left a note saying that she was going to see a friend who could help her, and I want to know if you have any idea who that is.’
‘No, I can’t say I—’
‘So you didn’t give her an address, or—’
‘I have offered,’ said Benson carefully, ‘to … make reparations, as it were.’
‘
Reparations?
You mean you’ve offered to pay for Monica to have an illegal operation which may very well ruin her health for life. I need to know where she’s gone.’
‘I think that’s somewhat of an exaggeration, don’t you? There are perfectly good clinics where every care is taken to do a competent job.’
‘Monica,’ said Stratton through gritted teeth, ‘is not a piece of machinery. She is
my
daughter, and she has feelings, and I’m very concerned that she’s done something stupid. Did you, or didn’t you, give her the name of an abortionist?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘Did anybody?’
‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘What about people at the studio? Friends? Anyone she’s mentioned?’
‘Well, she’s pally with another make-up girl, Anne, but I don’t know any more than that. You’d have to ask the studio, unless Monica’s left an address book or something like that …’
Cursing himself for not having thought of this and feeling that there was nothing to be gained by prolonging the conversation, Stratton rang off, but not before leaving Benson in any doubt that they’d be discussing the matter further and face to face and assuring him that if anything happened to Monica then he would hold him personally responsible.
Stratton stood on the threshold of his daughter’s bedroom. It wasn’t territory into which he usually ventured – certainly not by himself,
anyway – and he felt uncomfortable. He had a clear memory of himself in 1940, when the children were evacuated, coming in here and purloining a tiny pink scarf Monica had made for one of her dolls. Remembering the embarrassment he’d felt at this sentimentality, even though no-one had seen him do it, he found himself wondering what had happened to the little scrap of knitting. If Jenny had found it in one of his pockets, she’d never mentioned it …
The dolls were gone now. Sketches – portraits, flowers and fruit – from the evening classes she’d attended were pinned up on the walls, and there was a Jean Plaidy novel and a film magazine on top of the small bedside cabinet, a dish of hairpins and a bottle of scent on the mantelpiece and a chiffon scarf draped over one edge of the mirror. Stratton glanced at the neatly made bed with its shiny pink eiderdown; the idea of his daughter lying in it and thinking about that bloody man, as she must surely have done, revolted him, and he turned away. Looking around the room, trying to avoid the bed with his eyes – almost impossible, as it took up nearly half the available space – he couldn’t see anything that looked like an address book. As far as he knew, Monica had never kept a diary. He stared at her chest of drawers. He really did not want to search through all her underclothes and whatever else she might have in there, but … Perhaps he ought to ring Doris? For Christ’s sake, he told himself, this is no time for pussyfooting around. Just get on with it.
Gingerly, as if the action might detonate a bomb, Stratton opened the top drawer. Finding only the usual array of underwear and stockings, he slammed it closed as if that would shut the image of Benson fingering these garments, and the corresponding regions of their wearer, out of his mind. Finding nothing of note in the next drawer, he opened the bottom one. Beneath a folded cardigan, he found a bundle of letters. Perhaps they would help … Recognising his own handwriting, and Jenny’s, and seeing the faded ink, he realised that Monica must have kept them from the war
years, when they’d written to her and Pete in Suffolk. Blinking, he stuffed them back into place and stood up, staring round the room with scalded eyes.
He looked in the wardrobe, which seemed to contain the right amount of clothing. Monica’s suitcase was sitting at the bottom, which was something to be grateful for, at least. Finding that the bedside cabinet held nothing but a pair of gloves and a drawstring bag containing sanitary towels and a belt, Stratton turned his attention to the two small bookshelves. Perhaps the assorted Georgette Heyers, Daphne du Mauriers and A. J. Cronins would yield something. There were a few exercise books, too, kept from school, and an elderly jigsaw which, judging from the picture on the box, was of a deer in a woodland glade. He began with the books, flicking through the pages and shaking them before dropping them on the bed. Nothing there, and nothing hidden behind them, either. The exercise books were similarly barren, but when he opened the jigsaw box, he saw, beneath the jumble of cardboard, the corners of two letters. Scrabbling for them and sending half the pieces flying in the process, he saw that he was holding two notes in the same unfamiliar hand. Both were signed
With all my love, dearest one, R.B.
Scanning them quickly, Stratton saw that they were, underneath all the flummery and flowery language (Benson seemed to have been reading the same sorts of books as Monica), assignations, and, for his purposes, quite useless.