‘The problem is,’ he was saying, ‘that wars tend to be regarded in terms of black and white, when, in reality, the . . . moral palette, if you like, is better viewed as different shades of grey: compromise, difficult choices, and so forth. Unavoidable, I’m afraid; and at times like this, one has to deal with all sorts of unsavoury people. Doesn’t mean one trusts them, of course. But that’s the bigger picture - we needn’t concern ourselves too much with that.’
Diana, who had the impression that he’d given this little speech several times before - even the hesitation seemed rehearsed - nodded to show that she was paying attention.
‘As far as the spy network is concerned - theirs, I mean - the truth is that we simply don’t know the extent of it. We believe that the Abwehr will try to recruit IRA sympathisers, resentful Welshmen, deserters from the forces, criminals and so forth, but we have no idea of either the success or the efficiency of their operation.’ He paused, and stared at her for a moment, before continuing. ‘The interests of the spy and the thief aren’t so very different, you know. Both trade in stolen goods.’ He smiled, and Diana smiled back. ‘But at least half the people you’ll encounter,’ he continued, ‘will be cranks or fantasists, and at least half of those will be elderly ladies imagining Germans under their beds, but every report, however lunatic, has to be investigated. You’ll find that in most cases, what passes for patriotism is actually a healthy instinct for self-dramatisation. So . . .’ His fingers touched the base of his empty glass and pushed it half an inch towards her, as if it were a chess piece. ‘Do you think you’re up to the job?’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
Diana held his gaze for a moment - again, that look of thinly-veiled amusement - then, lowering her eyes, noticed that her fingers were on the stem of her own glass, and that she had, unconsciously, mimicked his chess-playing action with a push of her own. I don’t believe he’s pro-fascist, either, she thought. Or - as F-J had said, a ‘cold fish’. In fact, she rather liked him.
SEVENTEEN
‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ Stratton shoved his way through the throng of shouting, gesticulating bodies in the police station foyer towards PC Ballard, who was standing, helmet askew, in the middle of the mêlée, vainly trying to calm a group of four swarthy men with moustaches and long aprons. One had a split lip, another a bloody towel wrapped round his hand, and all of them were yelling foreign imprecations at the tops of their voices. A tiny, black-shawled crone was howling in the arms of a policewoman who was patting her ineffectually on the shoulder, and a red-faced PC Arliss was yelling for quiet. Old Cudlipp, the desk sergeant who should have been on duty, was nowhere to be seen, but Stratton thought he detected the sound of groaning from behind the wooden partition.
He turned round just in time to see two of the men break away from Ballard and make a lunge for Arliss, who disappeared immediately beneath a welter of milling arms and legs. Stratton dived after them, grabbed their collars and jerked them upright. ‘Break it up, now, gents. We don’t want a free-for-all.’ Arliss beat a hasty retreat behind the desk, and a sudden hush fell on the room as both men, now held at arm’s length - Stratton was almost a foot taller than either of them - glared at him, panting. ‘Let’s try and sort this out, shall we?’ He let go of the men, who shook themselves angrily. The oldest of the men who had been haranguing Ballard spat on the floor.
‘None of that,’ said Stratton. ‘This is a police station, not a prizefight. What’s the problem?’
‘I think,’ said Ballard, looking uncomfortable, ‘that it might be better if I explained in private.’
‘Fair enough. Are they all together?’
‘Yes, sir. Same family.’
‘Right.’ Stratton turned to the policewoman. ‘Miss Harris, I suggest you take this lady through to the back and give her a cup of tea. See if you can make some sense of what’s happened.’
‘I don’t think she speaks English, sir.’
‘Never mind. Just do the best you can.’
Policewoman Harris put her arm round the elderly woman’s shoulders, and was about to escort her from the foyer when the man who had spat leapt forward. ‘Stop!’ he roared. ‘You no arrest my mother!’
‘I’m not arresting anyone,’ said Stratton, mildly. ‘But I will if you don’t pipe down. Now, PC Arliss here will take you through to a nice, quiet room where you will wait nice and quietly until I have had a word with PC Ballard.’
When Arliss had ushered the four men out, Stratton turned to Ballard. ‘Well?’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ballard. ‘I know it’s not your—’
‘Never mind that. Are they aliens?’
‘No, sir. Greek.’
‘So what are they doing here? You’d better start from the beginning.’
‘We were on Frith Street, sir, patrolling, and there was a disturbance at the barber’s shop, so we went to investigate, and there was a fight in progress - the old lady was belting one of the customers with a hairbrush, and calling him . . . Well, I don’t know what she was calling him, sir, because it wasn’t English, but it sounded pretty nasty to me. He was trying to fend her off, and then the others got involved, and a mirror got broken, and the gentleman got cut, and one of them gave him a black eye. He wants to bring charges, sir, and Arliss thought they were Eyeties, you see, so he wanted to bring them in anyway, and he sent for the Black Maria. We managed to get them here, but they were all shouting at once . . .’ Ballard shook his head. ‘Quite a to-do, sir.’
‘Did you make any sense of it?’ asked Stratton.
‘Well, sir, I think the gentleman was having his hair cut, and he said he was polishing his spectacles under the sheet, sir,’ Ballard indicated his crotch, ‘and the lady seems to have thought he was doing something else, because of the . . .’ he made a graphic gesture with one hand, ‘the . . . movement, sir, and of course she couldn’t see what he was doing, so she fetched him a whack with the hairbrush, on his . . .’ Ballard winced, ‘. . . you know, sir, and broke the spectacles, and then, well, all hell broke loose.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
Ballard shook his head. ‘He just said he was polishing the spectacles and she attacked him, sir, without warning. The others - they’re her sons - obviously they could understand what she was shouting, but they didn’t want to tell me, because . . . well . . .’
‘Because they didn’t want you to know that their mother knew about such things.’
Ballard nodded. ‘Family honour, sir. One of the other customers told me. He saw the whole thing.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘I took his details, sir. In case we need a witness.’
‘I see. And the man was polishing his spectacles, was he? According to your witness?’
‘Yes, sir. They were in his lap when they got broken, under the sheet. But he said, sir, that it looked very like . . . Well, what the lady thought, sir. The barber wants to bring charges against the gentleman for breaking up the shop. And they’re furious with Arliss because he called them Eyeties, sir.’
‘Terrific. Where’s the chap with the glasses?’
‘With Cudlipp, sir. I thought I’d better get him out of the way before they did him any more damage.’
‘Well, I’ll go and see him - see if we can’t straighten this out. In the meantime, you go back to our barbershop quartet and tell them we’re sorting it out and that if I hear a peep out of any of them, they’ll find themselves in the cells.’
‘Very good, sir. Thank you.’
‘And straighten your tunic. You look as if you’ve been through a hedge backwards. What’s their name, by the way?’
‘Polychronopolos, sir.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s what I thought.’
Stratton found Cudlipp in a cubbyhole next to the Information Room. Sitting next to him, with partially cut hair and a swelling eye, was Joe Vincent’s fellow lodger, Mr Rogers. When he saw Stratton, he leapt to his feet. ‘Are you in charge here? That woman attacked me, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it!’ He produced the mangled glasses. ‘Look!’ he said, thrusting them in Stratton’s face. ‘Just look at that! Something’s got to be done.’
‘In the circumstances,’ said Stratton, ‘that might not be such a good idea.’
‘What do you mean? What circumstances?’
‘Why don’t you sit down,’ suggested Stratton, ‘and we can discuss it.’
Mr Rogers cast wildly about him as if all the chairs had suddenly been removed by magic. ‘I was assaulted,’ he said. ‘Quite unprovoked - woman’s obviously deranged, a danger to the public, and if you . . . if you . . .’ He tailed off and stared at Stratton, who thought he detected a hastily disguised flicker of fear.
‘We’ve met before,’ said Stratton.
The man hesitated. ‘Yes. At my rooms, I think.’ Stratton thought that “rooms” was going it a bit for Mrs Cope’s dingy lodging house, but merely said, ‘That’s right. DI Stratton.’
‘Rogers.’ The man tucked the glasses into his pocket and stuck out his hand. ‘What did you mean about the circumstances?’
Seeing that the man had no idea that he might have offended, Stratton said, ‘It’s rather delicate, sir.’
‘Delicate? Look at me!’ Rogers, his indignation re-surfacing, held a shaking finger up to his eye.
‘As you say, sir, the lady attacked you. May I suggest you sit down, and I’ll explain.’
‘Nothing to explain. Woman’s off her head.’ Clearly feeling that he had driven the point home, Rogers sat.
‘Do you need me, sir?’ asked Cudlipp. ‘I ought to get back to the desk.’
‘Of course.’ When he’d left the room, Stratton asked, ‘Have you any idea why Mrs Polychronopolos attacked you?’
‘There was no reason at all! I was sitting quietly, minding my own business, having a haircut.’
‘You were polishing your spectacles, weren’t you, sir?’
‘Yes, and that bloody woman smashed them to pieces. They’ll have to be paid for.’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Polychronopolos was upset. She thought you were committing an indecent act. Your hands were under the sheet, sir. In your lap. She witnessed a jerking movement, and came to the unfortunate conclusion that you were masturbating.’
‘What!’
‘Masturbating, sir.’ Stratton managed to keep a straight face, but it was a near thing.
‘You mean, she thought that I was doing - that in the . . .’ Rogers gestured wordlessly.
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, adding, smoothly, ‘Not the best place for it, you’ll agree, sir.’
‘No . . . but look here . . . I mean . . .’ Rogers spluttered, then shouted, ‘That’s defamation! I could sue her for that, in fact, I’ve got a good mind to—’
‘Do I take it,’ Stratton interrupted, ‘that you were polishing your glasses, sir, and not engaging in the other activity?’
‘Of course I was! The whole thing’s disgusting! What I want to know is, what are you going to do about it?’
‘If I were you, sir, I’d let the matter drop.’
‘Drop? I’ve been assaulted!’
‘I’m just thinking of how it might appear in court.’
Rogers was silent for a while. Judging by the expressions passing across his face, Stratton could almost see the man’s thoughts: visions of a magistrate peering at him over half-moon spectacles, giggles and nudges from the gallery as euphemistically worded accusations were made - engaging in a lewd practice, self-abuse, manipulating his person. He would be made a laughing stock or, supposing he was not believed, a pathetic disgrace, and his elderly mother’s shame and sorrow would be unbearable . . . At last Rogers spoke: ‘Ah,’ he said.
‘I’ll leave you to think it over,’ said Stratton.
Exiting as fast as he could, he ran down the corridor to the Gents’, where he could laugh without being heard. Ballard came in while he was splashing his face with water. ‘Sir?’
‘He’s not going to press charges. Have your lot calmed down a bit?’
‘They’re still arguing, but at least they’re keeping the noise down.’
‘Good. And the old lady?’
‘Fine, sir. Sitting there as if she’s in church.’
‘I think you’d better get them all together and explain that we can quite understand how the misunderstanding happened, but that it was only a misunderstanding, and the best thing would be to go home and forget all about it. Oh, and make it clear that we know they’re not aliens and they’ve got every right to go about their lawful business and so forth, won’t you?’
Ballard nodded. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’
‘You’re welcome. Best laugh I’ve had all week. I’ll tell Rogers he’s free to go, and then I think I’d better have a word with Arliss about geography.’
Ballard’s mouth twitched slightly. ‘Yes, sir. But I think you’ll be lucky, sir, if you don’t mind my saying. Wogs begin at Calais, and all that.’
‘I know,’ said Stratton, wryly. ‘I can but try.’
Rogers stood up, white faced, when Stratton re-entered the room. He’d taken care, on the return journey down the corridor, to arrange his features into what he hoped was a solemn but kindly expression, and to expunge all thoughts of wanking and magistrates from his mind. Rogers, it seemed, hadn’t succeeded in this. Still shaken by the spectre of police charges and public humiliation, he was a cowed man, desperate to re-establish himself as a law-abiding, conscientious citizen, for whom anything beneath the trousers was strictly off limits.