Stratton's War (24 page)

Read Stratton's War Online

Authors: Laura Wilson

‘’Fraid not, sir.’
‘Never mind. You might let them know I’m on my way - if you can get through, that is - and see if you can get hold of the photographer and send him over. Send a messenger if you can’t do it by telephone, and tell Bainbridge and Ricketts to stop those men reading the files. Then get this place cordoned off before it turns into a complete circus. Have we heard anything from HQ?’
‘No, sir.’
It wasn’t entirely surprising, Stratton reflected as he walked up Regent Street. Scotland Yard probably had troubles of their own. In any case, they’d be better off without a lot of top brass hanging about and getting in the way.
The last time Stratton had been inside a church was for Jenny’s mother’s funeral. He didn’t remember very much about the service, except that there’d been a storm. They’d trooped outside and gathered round the grave in the sort of lashing rain against which umbrellas were useless while the vicar gabbled through ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live . . .’ like a horse-racing commentator.
There was something terrible about destroying a place of worship, he thought, as he stared at the giant mounds of bricks, pillars and smashed stained glass that had been the Church of Our Lady and St. Peter. With the awkward reverence of the non-churchgoer, he negotiated his way past a jumble of broken pews, brass fittings and shattered pictures of lachrymose saints martyred for a second time, towards the back of what was left of the building. An ARP warden, accompanied by an elderly priest, his cassock incorrectly buttoned over his pyjamas and an oversize tin hat jammed firmly on his head, came to greet him. He put out a hand. ‘DI Stratton, West End Central.’
‘George Crosbie,’ said the warden. ‘And this is Father Lampton.’ The priest, who was staring down at his slippered feet, seemed disinclined either to speak or shake hands. After a moment, he wandered away, bending down every so often to peer into the rubble. The warden watched him go, then turned to Stratton.
‘Not Catholic are you, Inspector?’
Stratton shook his head.
‘He’s fretting about his reliquary.’
‘His what?’
‘The box where they keep the holy bits and pieces. They’ve got the foreskin of St. Giles or the left tit of St. Gertrude or something, and he’s determined to find it. I’ve told him not to go poking about - for all we know, there could be a time bomb in this lot - but he won’t listen.’
‘Is there a St. Gertrude?’ asked Stratton.
‘Buggered if I know. Honestly, you’d think he’d have better things to worry about, wouldn’t you?’ Not waiting for an answer, Crosbie continued, ‘Anyway, this body. If you’d care to follow me, Inspector, I’ll show you.’
With a last glance at the forlorn figure of Father Lampton, who was now blowing dust off a piece of splintered board, Stratton accompanied the warden, taking as much care as he could not to step on anything that looked as if it might be sacred. Passing the stone font, which, though chipped and gouged, was still standing, he noticed, sticking out of the pile of debris that filled the receptacle, another piece of board like a wafer on top of an ice cream. Pulling it out, he read the words ‘—st falls’ and wondered, briefly, what they meant.
The warden led him down some rickety stairs to what must have been the crypt, which was now partially open to the sky. Nine or ten tombs, their stone tops smashed in and their wrought iron railings scattered about like spillikins, stood along the right side of the room. The resurrection of the body, thought Stratton. He didn’t know what the last trump would sound like, but the angels who blew it would certainly need a hell of a lot of puff if they wanted to compete with a fleet of Dorniers. He followed the warden to the end of the row of tombs, where a large hole in the floor, made by falling masonry, had revealed a makeshift earth grave beneath the stone slabs. Inside, Stratton could see a tangle of dusty limbs that culminated in a dented buff-coloured ball that looked, at first glance, as if it belonged on top of a newel post. Bending down, he saw that the features - the head was in profile - had been smashed flat.
‘That wasn’t caused by the bombing,’ said Crosbie. ‘He was like that when we found him.’
‘He?’
‘The—’ Crosbie checked himself. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. Figure of speech. It’s not likely to be a woman, is it?’
‘No idea,’ said Stratton. ‘Have you moved anything?’
‘No. Thought we ought to leave it.’
Stratton squatted down and picked up a handful of the soil, noting the yellowish deposits. It would have to be checked, but he’d bet it was lime, and builder’s lime at that. Builder’s lime would delay putrefaction, whereas quicklime would destroy the corpse. He wondered if whoever buried the dead person knew this. He looked up at the warden, who was staring impassively at the body. ‘Do you know if there’s been any building work done here recently?’ he asked.
‘Couldn’t say.’ Crosbie shook his head. ‘I could ask Father Lampton, if you like, but I’ve not been able to get much sense out of him so far.’
‘I’ll ask him later. Right now, we need the pathologist, then the body can be moved. Where’s the nearest telephone?’
‘There’s one in the pub down the road, but I don’t know if it’s working.’
‘In that case, we’d better send someone round.’
‘No-one here. They’re all in Berners Street. Whole row came down - hell of a mess.’
‘In that case, can you take a message to the Middlesex?’
 
Stratton accompanied Crosbie to the foot of the steps, then found a place to sit that was as far away from the body as possible without being directly underneath any dodgy looking bits of wall. He hoped that someone other than Dr Byrne was on duty, and then stared up at what was left of the vaulted ceiling, wondering if this part of the building was older than the rest. All he knew about church architecture was that there were a lot of strange bits and pieces, like squinches and quoins, which did not, as far as he knew, form part of any other type of building. He remembered the piece of wood in the font: ‘—st falls’. Must be the end of ‘Christ falls’. A vague memory came back to him of reading this, once, on the wall of a Catholic church . . . when? Why had he been there? A funeral, perhaps, or a wedding? The Stations of the Cross, that’s what it was. He lit a cigarette, glad to have pieced it together, but his satisfaction was quickly quashed by the thought that the missing persons files at West End Central had probably been wholly or partly destroyed, which meant that identifying chummy was going to be even more difficult . . . Not to mention the way people were moving around nowadays because of the war, and it might be a foreigner, in which case . . . Stratton groaned. As if life wasn’t complicated enough already.
Hearing shuffling noises from above, he put out his cigarette and stood up, brushing dust off his clothes. It wasn’t the pathologist, as he’d hoped, but Father Lampton, who made his way unsteadily down the steps, a tin cup in his hand. Ignoring Stratton’s greeting, the priest began to sprinkle water in the direction of the tombs, muttering incantations under his breath. Stratton caught up with him and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Excuse me.’
The priest shook his head and flicked some of the water in Stratton’s direction. Several drops fell on his sleeve and Stratton, unthinking, brushed them off. The movement caught Father Lampton’s eye, and he looked at Stratton for the first time.
‘What?’ he said in a querulous voice. ‘What is it?’
‘DI Stratton, Father, from West End Central. I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Questions?’ repeated Father Lampton, vaguely. ‘Now? I’m busy.’
‘I know, Father, but it won’t take long. It’s about the body.’ The priest eyed Stratton with distaste. ‘There will be further questions once we have more information, but at the moment I’d like to know if any of your congregation have gone missing - anyone who attends church regularly, but hasn’t been coming recently.’
‘Well,’ said Father Lampton, ‘there are the evacuees, of course, and one or two of the mothers, and the men who’ve been called up . . . One of my older parishioners died recently, and one poor soul was killed in the bombing, but apart from that, I don’t know of anyone.’
‘I see. Has there been any building work carried out here in the past year? Repairs, and so forth.’
‘Yes.’ Father Lampton nodded. ‘Strengthening the roof.’ Gazing at the ruins around him, he added, sadly, ‘Man proposes . . .’
‘When was the work carried out?’
‘February or March. Does it have a bearing on the matter?’
‘It might. Do you remember the name of the company who did the work?’
‘McIntosh, McInnes . . .’ Father Lampton shook his head. ‘No, that’s not right . . . McIntyre. That was it. McIntyre.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, Father. For the time being.’
The priest gave Stratton a curt nod and shuffled away in the direction of the stairs. Left alone, Stratton sat down again. The man’s reaction was probably due to shock - it was his church after all - and he supposed that dousing the place in holy water was probably as good a response as any.
 
After half an hour, during which time Stratton smoked two more cigarettes, scribbled ‘McIntyre - Builders’ in his notebook, and hoped that Cudlipp was managing not to give mortal offence to the staff at Veeraswamy’s, the photographer arrived. He was in the process of setting up his equipment when Crosbie returned, accompanied by Dr Byrne. Bollocks, thought Stratton; it would be.
‘Well, where is it?’ said Byrne, as if he’d been the one kept waiting.
‘Over here.’ Stratton led the way past the tombs. Byrne gave the corpse a curt nod - which was more, Stratton thought, than he’d got by way of greeting - then stood back to allow the photographer to finish. ‘Moved anything?’ he asked Stratton.
‘I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’ Byrne gave him a look that suggested he very much doubted this, but didn’t reply.
Stratton sent Crosbie to the station to fetch a reservist to guard the place until such time as the mortuary van could be spared to collect the body, and settled down to watch Byrne at work. The man was efficient, he thought, admiring the neat way he took measurements and made sketches, you had to give him that.
 
Twenty minutes later, Byrne straightened up, and Stratton felt it was safe to venture a question. ‘How long do you think it’s been here?’
‘A few months . . .’ The pathologist unrolled his sleeves. ‘Can’t say until I’ve examined it properly. I must say,’ he added, ‘I feel rather like an archaeologist.’ Stratton was surprised to see that the man’s features had arranged themselves into a sort of rictus, and, realising several seconds too late that it was meant to be a smile, responded with a hearty chuckle. ‘Short hair,’ Byrne continued, ‘and men’s clothes, as far as I can tell, but you never know.’ This, judging by the expectant look on his face, was meant as another sally, and Stratton guffawed obligingly. Christ, he thought, any minute now we’ll be slapping our thighs and clapping each other on the back.
‘He was murdered, was he?’ he asked.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Was it the blow to the head?’
‘Several blows. There’s a depressed fracture to the skull, which can’t have done him much good.’
‘What about the earth? Those yellow deposits - I wondered if they might be lime.’
‘Might explain the lack of insect activity. We’ll have to have them analysed, of course.’ It was clear from Byrne’s tone that he felt he’d unbent quite enough, and Stratton knew better than to press him. ‘Right,’ said the pathologist, stowing the last of his things in his bag, ‘I’ll be off. I’ll let you know when I’ve completed the examination. In normal circumstances, I’d say Friday, but . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Stratton, hurriedly - the mounting evidence that Byrne was actually human was beginning to unnerve him. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Having instructed the reservist who’d arrived, Stratton returned to the station to find Cudlipp standing on the corner of Vigo Street having a blazing row with one of the cooks from Veeraswamy’s. The man was brandishing a heavy ladle, but Cudlipp, arms akimbo and with a familiar expression of stubbornness on his face, held his ground. ‘You are thinking I know bugger nothing,’ screamed the cook in a fury, ‘but I know bugger all!’ Clearly feeling that this was an unanswerable riposte he turned and stamped back to the restaurant.
Stratton managed to turn his laughter into a cough. He wasn’t going to bother to ascertain the facts - Cudlipp, he thought, was bound to have started it - but Cudlipp, it seemed, was determined to give them to him whether he liked it or not.
‘Tried to pinch my kettle, sir. Thieving wog.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Here.’ Cudlipp indicated the battered object, which was on the ground behind him. ‘Safe and sound.’
‘Good.’ He shooed Cudlipp back in the direction of what was left of the station and went to have a word with the restaurant’s manager.

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