Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton stuffed them back in the box and stood shaking his head and staring down at the cardboard fragments of bark and leaves scattered around his feet. He hadn’t found a single clue to where she might have gone.
Chapter Sixty-One
A call to Ashwood Studio, in Stratton’s official capacity, yielded the information that Anne the make-up girl, whose surname turned out to be Browne, lived in Clapham but wasn’t on the telephone, and that the last known address for Diana Calthrop, now Carleton, was in Pimlico, but there was no telephone there, either.
Recollecting that Ballard lived somewhere in, or anyway near, Clapham, Stratton picked up the telephone once more and asked the operator to put him through. If the sergeant was surprised to hear his voice, he didn’t show it, and when Stratton, as succinctly as he could, explained the situation, Ballard responded with commendably impersonal efficiency and agreed to go round to Tremlett Gardens and question the girl at once.
‘Shall I telephone you at home, sir?’ he asked.
‘No … I’ll telephone you later on – or leave a message at the station. I’m going out. There’s someone else I need to follow up, who might know where the hell Monica is.’
‘Yes, sir. And, sir … Good luck.’
‘Thanks, Ballard. Believe me, I appreciate this.’
By nine o’clock, Stratton was in Pimlico standing outside the address he’d been given for Diana, and wondering if the man he’d spoken to at the film studio had made a mistake. The tall, thin house, in the middle of a semi-derelict terrace, looked as if it was being held upright by the buildings on either side. Clearly divided into flats,
it didn’t look like anywhere that Diana might visit, let alone inhabit. But then, he thought, as he walked up the four steps to the front door, ‘his’ Diana existed only in memory. She won’t be the person I used to know, he told himself, or the one I met for those few excruciating moments at the Festival of Britain, any more than she’ll remain the woman she is now. Everyone changes … Here, a sudden vision of Monica as a little girl made his eyes burn. Childhood was only an imagined cocoon of safety, he told himself. Look at poor little Judy Davies …
In answer to his knock, an elderly woman who smelt faintly of mildew put her head round the door and eyed him up and down with an irritable pecking movement like a parrot adjusting its plumage. Must be the landlady, thought Stratton. Large or small – and this one appeared to be pocket-sized – they tended to be of a kind.
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Carleton,’ he said.
The landlady let out a short yipping noise. ‘Not here. You another one of her
gentlemen
?’ She made the word sound like the worst of insults.
‘I’m a policeman,’ said Stratton, sharply, producing his warrant card. ‘DI Stratton, CID, and I’d like to talk to her.’
The landlady’s head, still the only visible part of her, twisted to one side in a way that didn’t look possible, never mind comfortable. ‘Police now, is it? Well you won’t find her here. I gave her notice.’
‘Do you know where she went?’
‘Didn’t ask. I won’t have that sort here.’
‘What sort?’
‘Well, she
said
she was married, but the husband – if that’s what he was – disappeared a few weeks back, and then some other man came and paid all the rent they owed, and then she started having
visitors
, if you know what I mean. For all I know, she might have gone to live with one of those. She never had no money, or if she did I never got the smell of it. Now, if that’s all …’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
Chapter Sixty-Two
Monica sat well back, not wanting to put her arms on the sticky surface of the café table. She didn’t much want to touch anything in the place, including the tea she’d ordered. She knew she was just putting off the moment, but she couldn’t face it, not quite yet.
The only other customer was an elderly, toothless man who, after sucking noisily at a forkful of mince to extract the flavour, removed the resulting pulp from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger and laid it on the side of his plate. It was only when he looked up from his gummy exertions that Monica realised she must have been staring, and looked down at her lap, hoping the revulsion hadn’t shown too much on her face.
She had to go through with it. The more she’d thought about it, the more obvious it was. People like her shouldn’t have children, because they were abnormal and would pass on their defects. Everyone knew that: it was how you ended up with cripples and kids with awful diseases who died young. Imbeciles, too. It would be as bad as if someone with venereal disease had a child. Auntie Doris had explained about that when one of their neighbours’ sons turned out to be mentally defective: the mother had told her that her husband had caught something when he was serving overseas and passed it on to her so that she, in turn, had given it to the baby.
She’d never be able to explain any of that to Dad, of course. He
might, in time, come to terms with what she’d done even though it was against the law and dangerous, but never with the other thing. That was why she hadn’t asked Raymond about the special clinic. Dad, she was positive, would talk to him, and it was much better that Raymond knew nothing of her plans. Dad was a dab hand at getting information out of people, and Raymond, she felt sure, would be no exception.
Instead, she’d confessed to Anne. She hadn’t wanted to, but a whispered confidence about an actress who’d found herself in trouble had persuaded her that her friend did know something of such matters, and there was nowhere else to turn. Initially, Anne had thought she was joking, and it had taken most of the day to convince her, but she’d managed it without revealing that Raymond was the father, inventing a local boy instead. Now, she had a name and address in her pocket, along with every bit of the money she’d managed to save since she started working. All she needed to do was to walk round the corner and knock on the door …
Chapter Sixty-Three
Stratton was so completely revolted by the old woman and her insinuations that Diana had turned into some sort of prostitute that it was only after striding down the road in disgust that he stopped to consider what she’d actually said.
No money, or if she did I never got the smell of it
. The Carletons must have been badly off, and something had evidently happened to him. Had he deserted her? If she’d had any money, she’d have paid the rent herself, he was sure of it. Perhaps she’d had to borrow from a friend, and that was what had planted the idea about men and visitors in the old besom’s mind. Surely, with no money, she’d have gone to stay with friends or relatives … in which case, she’d be impossible to find, at least at short notice. That was the obvious thing to do if one were thrown out with nowhere to go. But just in case, he’d try the women’s hostel near Victoria Station. He couldn’t believe he’d actually find her there – but then, he reasoned, he’d never have believed she’d have ended up in such ramshackle lodgings, either. It just went to show … what did it go to show? That one ought to expect the worst in any situation? No, he told himself firmly. Monica will be fine. I
shall
find her, and everything
will
be all right, somehow.
At least he was doing something. After the hostel, he’d go to West End Central and see if there was any message from Ballard about the girl in Clapham. Bound to set the cat amongst the pigeons, turning up when it wasn’t his shift, but he could always make out it was something to do with the Backhouse case. As long as Lamb
didn’t get wind of it and start asking awkward questions … Walking fast in the direction of Victoria, keeping his eyes peeled for a passing taxi, he found himself wondering what his own father would have done in such a situation. He imagined the taciturn old farmer towering over the culprit, a shotgun jammed in his ribs until an early wedding was agreed upon. Except his father had had only sons – himself and two older brothers – and Benson was already married. He could just hear the wretched man bleating about his reputation … But film stars got divorced all the time, didn’t they? In Hollywood, anyway. They weren’t the same as normal people. But Benson might have children as well – they weren’t to blame, and neither was his wife.
Eventually, he managed to flag down a taxi which took him to Victoria Station. Unsure of his bearings, he asked an elderly beggar whose face looked as though it had been under a harrow where to find the women’s hostel.
‘Down there, guv, on the right. Spare any change?’
Stratton gave him the price of a cup of tea and hurried off. The hostel was a squat, two-storey brick dwelling standing alone in the middle of a vast bombsite. In the windowless lobby, Stratton identified himself to a hard-faced woman of military bearing who sat, formidably, behind a wire grille. Unshaded, the single electric bulb gave her face a greenish cast, as if she were beginning to decompose, and behind her head, a series of metal rings hung like bizarre decorations, from lengths of coarse string. Halfway up a flight of stairs on the right, a stooped woman with an iron caliper on one leg pushed a mop backwards and forwards, punctuating their conversation with clanging noises whenever her metal support came into contact with the pail.
‘Carleton?’ The woman in the cage ran her finger down a list of names in a ledger. ‘Yes, last night. Policeman brought her in.’
‘Do you know where from?’
The woman drummed her fingers on the ledger for a moment, trying to remember. ‘Oh, yes. Fur coat. Not our usual type at all.
Quite confused – in fact, PC Eliot thought she might have lost her memory. Told me she’d showed him a picture of a man in the paper and said he was her husband and he’d died and she’d only found out when she’d read about it. We weren’t even sure that Carleton was her real name. Well,’ she added, defensively, ‘it doesn’t sound very likely, does it?’
‘Maybe not, but it is her name. Where did PC Eliot find her, do you know?’
‘One of the squares near the station. That’s his beat – he often brings women in here. He said she didn’t seem to know
where
she was.’
‘I see. And she hasn’t come back?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Mind you, if she’s still …’ she tapped her temple, ‘we’ll probably get her back. Is she wanted for something?’
‘Only information. We think she may know about a missing person.’
After telling the woman to contact West End Central if Diana did return, Stratton returned to Victoria Station and telephoned to Ballard from a public box. When the sergeant’s wife, an expolicewoman remembered by Stratton with affection, reported that he had not yet returned, he put another tuppence in the slot and telephoned Doris.
‘I’m sorry, Ted. She’s not been in touch.’
‘Oh, Christ … Sorry, Doris, I didn’t mean to—’
‘Listen, Ted – Don’s just come in. He wants to know if there’s anything he can do to help.’
‘It’s very kind of him, but I can’t think of anything at the moment … That girl Madeleine mentioned, I’ve managed to run her down and my sergeant’s gone round to talk to her, but beyond that, I really don’t know what to do. I’m just so …’ Words failing him, Stratton started on another tack. ‘I’m trying to find the other person Madeleine mentioned – I don’t think it can be her but it’s worth a go, and now I’m here …’
‘Where are you?’
‘Victoria Station. Look, I’d better go.’
‘Ted, please … I know it sounds stupid, but try not to worry. Monica’s always been a sensible girl. I’m sure she won’t do anything … you know …’
Doris clearly didn’t know what to say, either, and Stratton couldn’t blame her. Hopelessly, he scanned the faces of the people who passed him, the echoing noise of their heels quickly swallowed up by a cacophony of steam engines, whistles and porters trundling luggage trolleys. A needle in a haystack, a pebble on a beach … Why would Monica be in a bloody station, for God’s sake? He’d go round to the local police and see if PC Eliot could shed any light on Diana’s possible whereabouts. As he’d told Doris, he didn’t really think it likely that Diana could be the ‘friend’ but, in the absence of any information from Ballard, he had to do
something
useful. Anything was better than going home and doing nothing.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Diana felt as though she were in a dream. The man in the park had appeared out of the mist like an omen – as if, somehow, James had sent him to her. Unprepossessing and shabby, certainly, and rather odd, but he sounded respectable enough – and he was
there
, wasn’t he? Besides, what else did she have to do?
He’d offered to buy her a cup of tea, and they’d walked back towards Victoria Station, with him carrying her suitcase. He’d told her, in a husky whisper for which he’d apologised, explaining that his vocal cords had been damaged by gas in the Great War, that his name was Davies. ‘I’m just passing the time,’ he said. ‘Since my wife died, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands. I’m waiting for my unemployment cards to come through, then I’ll look for a job.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Diana. ‘It must be lonely.’
‘Yes. But she’d had a long illness. I looked after her, you see – that’s why I wasn’t working. It was a mercy, really – terrible suffering, so hard to watch …’
‘It must have been dreadful for you.’
‘It was. She was one in a million …’ Reaching into his overcoat pocket, he pulled out a pair of earrings and offered them to her. ‘Would you like these?’ They were cheap, screw-on things of the sort one might buy in Woolworth’s, with a large blue stone set in a circle of smaller white ones.
Taken aback, Diana said, ‘It’s very kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly … Did they belong to your wife?’
‘Yes. I’ve been carrying them about. I often carry something of hers, to keep her near me. Are you married?’
‘Yes. Or rather …’ And she’d found herself telling him all about James, and what had happened.
‘Very regrettable. I suppose, with him being in the pictures, it’s the sort of thing … oh, dear.’ He shook his head several times, then said, ‘How are you off for money? I could give you a pound.’