Authors: Laura Wilson
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But perhaps it was just there – in the cot or wherever she was, and got caught up in the things when Backhouse bundled her up, if he was doing it quickly – but then again, he claimed not to know anything about how the bodies got into the washhouse.’
‘That’s true, sir. I suppose it was because it made an impression on me – it just made me wonder about it.’
Stratton leant forward, across the desk. ‘But what do you actually
think
?’
Ballard looked genuinely helpless for a moment, then said, ‘I honestly don’t know, sir.’
‘Me neither.’ Stratton shook his head, remembering his son’s scorn, his own pathetic attempts to justify himself, and Pete’s
voice, dripping with sarcasm:
As mistakes go, Dad, I’d say this one rather takes the biscuit
. . . If only Davies could be proved guilty, he thought, that would go some way to redeeming him in Pete’s eyes – although nothing, he knew, could make up for Jenny’s death. But wishing wouldn’t make it so … And what one thought about the logic of the thing didn’t, and couldn’t, square with what he instinctively felt, which was that Davies had been innocent all along. ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘I suppose Davies taking the body – or bodies – off in his van would explain why no one spotted them with all those workmen about … But then why bring them back, especially if he’d planned to scatter the bits about, like the torso murder – remember those cuttings we found in the flat?’
If Ballard thought he was clutching at straws, he didn’t show it. ‘Backhouse could have planted them, sir. He’s pretty keen on newspaper cuttings himself – he had quite a few in his suitcase about Davies, and there was that one he almost showed Mrs Carleton. That was about the Davies case, too.’
‘Was it?’
‘Arliss gave me a message from the lab – it got sent there by mistake. I asked him to bring us some tea, by the way.’
‘Well done … Coming back to what we were saying before, I should have thought taking an adult’s body downstairs and out the front door would have caused a bit of a racket, and if Davies had done it at night that would be all the more reason for the Backhouses to hear …’
‘Here you are, sir.’ Arliss shuffled in with two cups of tea, most of which seemed to have ended up in the saucers.
Hastily shoving all his papers aside as the elderly constable’s unsteady hand pushed the china onto the desk, Stratton thought that Arliss’s retirement, due in a few months, couldn’t come a moment too soon. With ill-health, in the form of tremors, being added to his habitual incompetence, he’d become a one-man liability in the last year, regardless of how simple the task.
‘Thanks, Arliss.’ Stratton turned back to Ballard. ‘The Backhouses said they heard him bring Muriel’s body down to the washhouse, didn’t they? He said he thought Davies was moving furniture … Of course, if the last statement’s true, that means he was lying before, so … But somebody must have heard something, for Christ’s sake, and—’ Stratton, suddenly aware that Arliss was still standing somewhere over to his right, stopped and looked at him. The constable seemed suddenly alert – or rather, his usual expression of morose vacancy altered sufficiently for him to look grotesque and slightly shifty at the same time.
‘Was there something else?’ Stratton asked pointedly.
Arliss sucked his teeth and shook his head, as if contemplating a piece of exceptionally shoddy workmanship. ‘I can’t see why you’re bothering about all this, sir.’
‘What?’
‘All this about Davies and his missus and baby.’
‘Well,’ said Stratton, with withering sarcasm – not that anyone as dim as Arliss could be expected to recognise it as such – ‘let me enlighten you. In the first place—’
‘I know Davies did it, sir.’
Oh, for Christ’s sake, thought Stratton, irritably. What next? Maybe the station charlady would come and favour them with the benefit of her opinion. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘He told me.’
‘
Told you?
When?’
‘When he was here.’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, exasperated, ‘obviously when he was
here
. But when, exactly?’
‘It was the morning after he come in, sir. I remember it was early, because I’d just had my tea, and I was on duty downstairs, keeping observation. We got talking because I was outside the cell. I told him I could understand him killing his wife’ – Stratton could well believe this; Arliss had been blaming
his
wife, or, more accurately, her cooking, for the fact that he’d been locked in mortal
combat with his bowels for years, with the results of which his colleagues were all too well aware – ‘but I couldn’t understand an innocent kiddie. He said it was because the crying got on his nerves and he couldn’t put up with it, so he’d strangled her. Those were his words, sir – I remember it clear as day.’
‘Why the hell didn’t you say anything?’
‘Well …’ Arliss stared at him with an air of absorbed mystification, like a chimpanzee meddling with the workings of a watch, then said, ‘you’d got the confession off him, hadn’t you, sir? I never thought there was any need … Anyway, I say it’s all a waste of time. He done it, all right. He told me himself.’
‘Who in their right mind,’ asked Stratton, after the constable had taken himself off, leaving him and Ballard staring at each other, ‘would make a confession to
Arliss
?’
With a carefully neutral expression and tone, Ballard replied, ‘A man like Davies would, sir.’
‘I suppose so. Maybe he recognised a kindred spirit. I mean, they can’t have been that far apart mentally.’
Ballard looked reproachful. ‘Arliss was once seen to read a newspaper, sir. Or rather, he was caught turning over the pages and moving his lips at the same time, so—’
‘Point taken. You know what I mean. Actually, I suppose I can see how it might have happened. For all his faults, Arliss has a good way with prisoners, especially the younger ones, and he’s not threatening.’
‘Do you believe it, sir?’
‘Arliss obviously does, and he certainly isn’t sophisticated enough to have tricked Davies into saying it, or anything like that. Perhaps he was the one person that Davies felt comfortable enough with for him to tell the truth. Or …’ Stratton and Ballard stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment, ‘we’d put the idea into his mind that it was necessary for him to confess it.’
‘You’ve got to admit, though, sir, that it has a ring of truth about it. Davies must have been in terrible state of stress at the time, and …’ Ballard broke off, shaking his head in confusion, and fiddled with a paperclip.
‘And,’ Stratton finished for him, ‘we just don’t know.’
Ballard looked up. ‘No, sir. And I know it’s not much comfort, but I don’t believe anyone else does, either – except Backhouse, that is, and he’s not going to tell us, is he?’
THREE MONTHS LATER
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Stratton stood on the pavement in Albemarle Street, looking up at the Andersons’ house, which was impressively large: five floors, and a basement, and it obviously went back a good way, too. Diana had telephoned the station the previous day, asking to see him. She’d not said much, just invited him to come and see her – for tea, he supposed, as it was half past five.
He was wearing a clean shirt, which at least went some way to make up for his baggy suit and the shaving cut on his chin. As surreptitiously as he could he shone the toes of his shoes, in turn, on the calves of his trousers, before mounting the three steps to the door and raising the enormous brass knocker.
He’d been surprised when the telephone call came. After all, he reasoned, the last time he’d seen Diana, she’d been at her lowest and most vulnerable, and it was only human not to want to be reminded of that.
He
certainly didn’t like being reminded of himself at his weakest points – and, in the last few months, what with the inquiry into the Davies case and Backhouse’s trial, there’d been nothing but reminders. He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t been relieved when the inquiry had ruled that Davies was, after all, guilty of both murders, and exonerated the police. However, judging by the furore this had caused in the press, the thing wasn’t going to go away any time soon, even though Backhouse had been found guilty. There being no appeal, he’d been hanged the previous week, but instead of making Stratton feel better, it had only served
to give him nightmares about the things left undone and questions unasked.
At least, Stratton thought, Monica was all right, back at Ashwood and apparently quite happy in her work. Benson, she’d told him, had gone to America. He was in two minds about this, pleased that the man was separated from his daughter by God knew how many thousands of miles, but also feeling that work in Hollywood constituted a reward for bad behaviour. As he’d said to Don, he’d have preferred it if Benson’s enforced separation from Monica had been caused by, say, a fatal step in front of a bus, but, as Don had remarked, one couldn’t have everything …
The door was answered by a large woman with a pair of vast bosoms that looked, in their casing of stiff grey cloth, like some sort of defensive fortification. Once it became clear that Stratton, who hadn’t given his official title, wasn’t there to repair the drains or sell a vacuum cleaner but had been invited by Diana – about which she clearly hadn’t been told – she seemed unsure of quite what to do with him. She was on the point of making him wait outside when an attractive blonde woman appeared and, introducing herself as Mrs Anderson, whisked him into what he imagined must be known as the drawing room. Dark and high-ceilinged, with plenty of fancy cornicing and whatnot, it was full of the sort of furniture which was never bought, but handed down from generation to generation.
Mrs Anderson offered him a seat and a glass of sherry. He’d have preferred a cup of tea, but didn’t like to say anything, so he accepted. Mind you, he thought, sipping it, it was a lot less sweet and consequently much nicer than any sherry he’d had before – clearly the real stuff. While not betraying any hint of snobbery, his hostess spoke to him – ‘Diana’s told us so much about you … I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute … Don’t mind Mrs Robinson …’ and so forth – with an odd mixture of friendliness and impersonality. Although she was obviously trying to put him at ease, Stratton couldn’t help wondering if this was how she would have spoken
to an old family retainer if they’d happened to meet in unusual circumstances. All in all, he felt pretty uncomfortable, so it was quite a relief when, a few minutes later, the sound of a distant telephone bell was followed by the appearance of Mrs Robinson to say that Lady Melling was on the line.
Mrs Anderson excused herself and left, and Mrs Robinson stayed long enough to give him a look that stopped just short of telegraphing the fact that she’d be counting the spoons before following suit. Left alone, Stratton stood up and went to examine the line of silver-mounted photographs on the mantelpiece. The one in the middle showed a stately country pile; Mrs, or perhaps Mr, Anderson’s childhood home. Stratton picked it up, weighing the frame in his hand. Diana, he thought, would have grown up in a similar place. This was ‘the other half’ all right. The sheer, unassailable
poshness
of the whole thing … The long line of noble sperm stretching back through history and culminating around the eleventh century with Sir Somebody de Something who’d been rewarded for his services to the king – and not for roasting oxen or shovelling shit, either.
He was glaring down at the photograph when he heard a discreet cough behind him, and turning, he saw Diana standing about two feet away. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘That’s all right.’ Her smile was hesitant, but she looked far healthier than when he’d last seen her, glowing and fresh as if newly minted and wearing a smart grey suit that showed off her elegant legs. ‘Hideous, isn’t it?’
Confused – surely she couldn’t mean what she was wearing? – it took him a second to realise that he was still holding the photograph. ‘It’s certainly very big. And old, of course,’ he added, feeling stupid.
‘Fourteenth century, I think – originally, anyway. Until it got smothered. Some Victorian ancestor of Lally’s obviously told the architect to lay it on with a trowel.’
‘Yes …’ Unable to think of anything to say, Stratton stared at
the photograph in silence until Diana took it, very gently, out of his hands and repositioned it on the mantelpiece with the others.
‘You know,’ she said when she turned round, ‘that’s the past. That house’ – she indicated the photograph – ‘it’s a white elephant. Like the one I grew up in. That’s … well, it’s a ruin, really. Once the army’d finished with it …’ She shrugged. ‘I managed to sell it in the end, but it didn’t fetch much.’
‘But don’t you … I mean, aren’t you sorry? I mean … Well, you must have felt an attachment …’ Stratton tailed off, embarrassed.
‘Not really,’ said Diana, moving briskly towards the drinks table. ‘It’s just a place. I wasn’t very happy there.’ Picking up the decanter, she said, ‘More sherry?’
Stratton was surprised, when he looked at his glass, to find that it was empty. ‘Thank you, if it’s not too much trouble.’ God, what a ridiculous thing to say … What the hell was the matter with him?
Diana refilled his glass and, pouring a glass for herself, held it up. ‘Cheers!’
‘Er … cheers!’ Stratton touched his glass to hers, carefully. There was a moment’s silence as they both sipped and then, as Diana didn’t seem about to speak, he said, ‘What … I mean, why did you want to see me?’ God, she was staring at him – it was the wrong tone, too abrupt … ‘I mean, I’m delighted to see you, and you look … you look … much better, and … If there’s anything I can do …’
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ said Diana. Two hard spots of colour had come into her cheeks and, speaking very fast, she continued, ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t … I mean, that man … I’ve been staying here, and Lally and Jock have been very kind. I’ve been doing some decorating for them as payment for bed and board.’
‘Have you?’ Stratton couldn’t for the life of him imagine her up a ladder, wielding a paintbrush.