Authors: Laura Wilson
He turned away from the memorial, lifting his collar against the wind. As he reached the allotment, he realised that he’d simply gone there out of habit with no intention of actually
doing
anything. Ah, well … nothing much to do in November, anyway. He’d be better off in the shed at home, scrubbing pots, except that somehow he couldn’t fancy it.
He stood and stared at his patch, which was covered by a drift of leaves from the trees by the fence, pounded by the recent rain into a mulch out of which poked a few dismal-looking cabbages,
a cluster of bamboo sticks with bits of string flapping from them and the gooseberry bush. Ought to prune it, he thought, and then: another day. The sky had the dark and unsteady look of a muddy, windblown puddle, and the air, still wet from the heavy early morning rain, was like a damp handkerchief around his face. There was only one other man on the site, bent over a spade – more fool him – while his two young sons, bored and restive, tumbled over each other like cubs in the slippery mud beside the plot. They’d be eight or nine years old, he thought; not all that much younger than Michael Milburn. How long would it be, he wondered, before Michael was released? And what sort of person would he be by then? Christ! Angrily, he yanked the bamboo sticks out of the ground, threw them down on the path and kicked them into a pile.
‘Dad!
Dad!
’ Stratton looked up to see Monica running towards him, pink-cheeked and breathless, with shining eyes.
‘Hello, love. I didn’t expect to see you.’
‘I know, but I just thought … with Pete away and everything … Anyway, here I am.’ Monica surveyed the allotment. ‘Bit of a mess, isn’t it? Shall I give you a hand?’
Looking at her, Stratton suddenly saw her as fourteen again. He remembered how she’d come up here with him the year after Jenny died, when the war was ending and she and Pete had finally come home. She’d offered to help then, too. Pete had never taken much of an interest, but she had, and she’d turned out to have quite a knack for growing things. I’m lucky to have a daughter like her, he thought. No, he was more than lucky. What he actually felt, in a barely definable – and wholly unsayable – way, was blessed.
‘Are you all right, Dad?’
‘Wh— Oh, yes. Fine. Why?’
‘You’ve got your crumpled look.’
Stratton glanced down at his mackintosh. ‘I know it’s not exactly
Savile Row, but … Anyway, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re wearing overalls.’
‘Not
overalls
, Dad.’ Monica lifted up her own mackintosh. ‘They’re called jeans. It’s the latest thing from America – I bought them from someone on the set. Hardly anyone’s got them yet, but everyone wants a pair.’
‘I can’t think why. They’ve got rivets, for God’s sake. You look like a battleship. You don’t wear those to work, do you?’
‘Course not! But you wait, everyone’ll be wearing them soon.’
‘I won’t.’
‘No, the
young
people.’
‘Well, they’ll all look like cowboys. What’s wrong with a frock, anyway?’ Stratton fell silent, suddenly remembering the many times Reg had held forth on the topic of women in trousers. He was, of course, against it – or, as he put it, ‘agin it’. He thought of this now with something approaching affection, although when it was actually happening his feelings had been the usual mixture of boredom, irritation, and embarrassment on his brother-in-law’s behalf.
‘Honestly, Dad …’ Monica rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, when I said crumpled, I didn’t mean your clothes, I meant your face. That sort of funny smile where your mouth goes half up and half down, as if you’re pleased about something and sad at the same time. You’re looking like it now.’
‘Oh.’ Stratton made what he hoped was an improved (or at least less melancholy) face. ‘Sorry about that. I’ll try to do better in future. I’m pleased to see you, at any rate. Have you heard from Pete?’
‘He hasn’t got time to write to me – he’s got a girl, didn’t you know?’
‘No. He dropped in before they left, but he didn’t say anything.’
‘Well, he’s a dark horse,’ said Monica, easily. ‘Bit like you, Dad.’
Stratton raised his eyebrows, but decided not to pursue that.
‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was wondering about that this morning. Pete, I mean. He told you about her, did he?’
‘Not very much. He telephoned a couple of weeks ago, from Catterick – said he was coming to see you – but I couldn’t get much out of him. By the time he’d told me her name, we’d had our three minutes and he didn’t have any more money. Or so he said.’
‘So what is her name?’
‘Alison. He met her at a dance, and he sounded quite soppy about her – well, soppy for Pete, anyway. He’s probably scribbling away to her right now.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No. I told you, we ran out of time.’ Monica bent down and started picking up the bamboo sticks. ‘Are we going to do any gardening or not? If we stand still much longer, I should think we’ll go mouldy, like your old cabbages.’
Stratton grinned at her. ‘That’s enough cheek from you and your funny trousers. Let’s go home, shall we? I’ll take one of these mouldy old cabbages, as you call them, and we’ll have it for lunch.’
‘All right, then.’
‘How’s Marion?’ he asked, as they walked back, arm in arm.
Monica looked up at him, surprised. ‘She’s fine. Why?’
‘Just wondered … You didn’t bring her with you.’
‘Well, no. I didn’t think … I mean, I always come by myself.’
Stratton looked down at his daughter. Was it his imagination, or were her cheeks a bit redder than before? Deciding that this was the time to say something – if he were
ever
to say
anything
– he squeezed her arm against him with his elbow. ‘She’s always welcome, you know. Be nice to get to know her a bit better, that’s all. Because you’re quite fond of her, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am.’ Monica’s reply was quiet but firm, almost defiant.
Ignoring the hint of challenge, Stratton said, ‘I can see that you’re very happy. That’s all that concerns me, you know. I am aware …’ he knew he sounded pompous, but it was the best he could do, ‘that we’re not all alike.’
‘No,’ said Monica, thoughtfully. ‘We’re not, are we?’
‘On balance,’ said Stratton, carefully, ‘I’d say it’s probably just as well. Now, I was hoping you might volunteer to cook lunch. I know we’ve got some potatoes, and Doris has left something under a cloth in the scullery, but I’ve got no idea what it is, so …’
‘Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll make sure it doesn’t bite you back.’
‘Good.’ Giving her arm another squeeze, he added, ‘What would I do without you, eh?’
When Stratton had been to see him the previous Thursday, DCI Lamb had been remarkably sanguine about all the news from Suffolk – including that Mary/Ananda might never be compos mentis enough to be interviewed about Michael or Billy or anything else – and he was suprisingly composed about Stratton’s car, too. After a lot of guff about it being highly irregular, he’d admitted that not only had he discussed it with his opposite number in Suffolk, but that they’d agreed that the money for the extensive repairs should come out of their joint budgets. When, after this news, Lamb had produced a packet of Players and offered him one, Stratton was so astonished that he’d practically swallowed the thing.
Looking at the chaos on his desk, he decided he’d better sort out the mess before he read any more, and, having scraped all the papers into a rough heap, began weeding out the ones that weren’t witness statements. Burglary in furrier’s shop … Report of someone selling liquor in unlicensed premises … Stabbing after fight in club …
A new witness had come forward for that last one, which was unusual. It was the type of thing where everyone in the place suddenly came over all vague and short-sighted, or said things
and then retracted them twenty-four hours later. Stratton was looking over the statement when a call was put through from Ballard.
‘Just had the pathologist’s report on Roth. There’s a copy on its way to you, but I thought you’d like to know – it seems he isn’t Jewish after all.’
‘Not circumcised, you mean?’
‘Not according to Trickett.’
‘Well, he should know … He certainly looked it, and Roth’s a Jewish name, isn’t it? Sounds a bit as if it’s been shortened from something longer – German or Russian or something like that. Assuming Roth
was
his real name, of course.’
‘We haven’t found anything at the Foundation to prove that it isn’t, but if he came over here as a refugee—’
‘Which was what the chap at the Psychical Research Society seemed to think …’
‘There were thousands of those buggers, so if he entered the country with one name – which might not have been his own, either – and then started calling himself something else, we don’t have a hope of finding out who he really was.’
‘Did you speak to Tynan about it?’
‘Yes – insisted he was called Roth when he met him and he’d never heard of him being called anything else. Tynan’s still pretty shaken up, and I think he’d tell us if he knew anything. In fact, I’m sure of it. He’s not the type to stay down for long – I get the impression that he’s attempting to recast himself as the man who blew the whistle on an evil organisation that was threatening the fabric of society with occult practices and so on … Suit him down to the ground if Roth turned out to be a Nazi.’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ said Stratton. ‘When Roth told me he was in Berlin at the end of the war, I did wonder. That accent wasn’t German, though …’
‘Doesn’t mean he wasn’t a Nazi.’
‘Doesn’t mean he was, either. But
if
he was, all he had to do was get hold of some new clothes, adopt a Jewish name, get his hands on some papers – easy to do, I should think, if you had a bit of money – and he already looked the part, so …’
‘Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Well, not quite – I mean, he’d probably have had to walk across half of Europe – but certainly not impossible. If it’s true, that is.’
‘If it is,’ said Ballard, thoughtfully, ‘then no wonder he was so keen on telling people that the past wasn’t important.’
‘Well, quite. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know for sure, but – for whatever reason – he was dead keen to start again …’ Remembering the conversation they’d had in the pub, Stratton added, ‘I hope it didn’t come as too much of a shock to Pauline. She was rather keen on the Foundation lot, wasn’t she?’
‘She was a bit. I think she was kicking herself rather – you know, for being taken in. Anyway, all’s well.’
This wasn’t just a put-on, thought Stratton, Ballard really did sound contented. ‘I’m glad,’ he said.
‘And your business?’ said Ballard. ‘That went off all right, did it, whatever it was?’
‘Business?’ echoed Stratton. Then, realising that Ballard hadn’t believed a word of his explanation about forgetting where he’d parked his car the night he’d been with Diana, he said, hastily, ‘Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Fine, thanks – nothing to worry about.’
‘Jolly good. Oh, and I saw Miss Kirkland’s sister, too. Quite sad, really. Apparently they were very close as children …’
Listening with half an ear, Stratton thought about Diana. Whether she actually wanted to see him again or not, he wasn’t sure. And, more confusing, he wasn’t sure what
he
wanted, either, at least, not for the long-term future. If they weren’t so far apart in just about every way imaginable, it would be different. But
they were, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. And what he felt for her wasn’t love – at least, if it was, it wasn’t the kind of love he’d felt for Jenny. Years before – just before he’d left the farm, in fact – his father, who’d rarely talked about anything except farming, and then only when absolutely necessary, had made his one and only (to Stratton, anyway) pronouncement about marriage. Pointing at their horses, Blackie and Dora, standing side by side between the shafts of the great farm cart, he’d said, ‘You’ve got to pull together.’ Stratton could not now remember – and he certainly couldn’t imagine – what had given rise to this observation, or what he’d said in response, but he knew his dad had been right. If you were a lord or a millionaire or something, with a lot of servants to do things for you, then it probably wouldn’t matter so much if you were pulling in different directions, but for people like him … And he couldn’t imagine it with Diana. Apart from anything else, if the pair of them were horses, they’d each be pulling a different sort of carriage – probably, in his case, a cart. And, surprise him as she might with her common sense, Diana was too flighty, somehow. Too insubstantial. But despite all this he
did
want to see her again – and in any case, he ought to contact her, if only to thank her for what she’d said about Monica, for which he was genuinely and profoundly grateful.
‘… Anyway, there it is,’ Ballard concluded. ‘I’ll let you know if we turn up anything at the Foundation.’
Stratton replaced the receiver in the cradle and went to collect his coat and hat from the stand. It was three o’clock, and, as this was Diana’s half-day, she’d probably have reached home by now. No time like the present, he thought. He’d nip out now and give her a call from one of booths in the tube at Piccadilly Circus.
He’d got halfway down the corridor to the foyer when Feather, the desk sergeant, came hurrying towards him, a huge and
horrible grin on his big pink face. ‘It’s your friend Mr Heddon again.’
‘Heddon?’
‘You know. Just stepped out of his own personal flying saucer.’
‘Bloody hell. What does he want?’
‘Another urgent message from the Interplanetary Parliament, I would imagine. That’s why he wants to see you – far too important for the likes of li’l old me.’
‘You could have told him I was out.’
‘No point. He’d only have waited. I know the type.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Stratton, with bad grace.
Heddon, small and dapper as ever, was sitting on a bench between an earnest-looking youth with a row of pens and pencils in his top pocket and a fat woman carrying a bulging handbag, so misshapen that she might have been carrying a dozen pounds of walnuts. Seeing Stratton, Heddon leapt to his feet, shiny-eyed and nose twitching slightly, as if he hoped to be thrown a biscuit.