Stratton glanced at Ballard, who seemed to be staring fixedly at a heap of files on the floor. ‘Sounds like a good idea,’ he said. ‘Ballard, if there’s a room free, you might bring him upstairs. I don’t fancy suffocation so early in the morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ballard grinned, and, carefully manoeuvred his way out through the chaos.
‘Wallace does smell pretty strong, doesn’t he?’ said Jones. ‘I had a word with him myself - he wasn’t giving anything away, but I got the impression that he’s been doing a bit of business on his own account. I’ve not had a lot of dealings with Abie Marks but I know that Wallace is one of his boys, and I had the distinct feeling,’ Jones put his distinct feeling in inverted commas with two brisk raisings of the eyebrows, ‘that this little consignment wasn’t going Marks’s way.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Stratton. ‘Any idea where it was going?’
Jones shook his head. ‘Can’t be the Eyeties, and if the Malts are expanding their interests outside brasses, I think we’d have heard about it by now. So unless it’s the Elephant lot, which is possible, I suppose, I’m guessing it’s another Yiddisher, maybe the East End - Levy or Wilder. Someone who runs spielers, I’d say. Anyway, if Wallace is branching out a bit, you can bet he’s keeping it quiet, and if Marks were to find out . . .’ Jones drew a finger across his throat.
‘I see,’ said Stratton. ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to go ahead? I don’t want to tread on any toes.’
‘You won’t be,’ said Jones. ‘Strictly speaking, it’s your patch, and I’m up to here with bollocks from Machin about everything else - we all are - so help yourself. ’ He handed Stratton a piece of paper. ‘Here. That’s what we’ve got so far. It’s quite a haul.’
Ballard had put Wallace in the only available room, which was downstairs and very small. The man seemed to have ripened like a foreign cheese, and the single window, like the one in Stratton and Jones’s office, refused to budge. For a moment Stratton contemplated leaving the door open in order to be able to breathe without feeling actually sick, but decided that, what with the aroma from the still-blocked lavatory, such fresh air as the corridor might afford was less important than the possibility of being overheard. At this point, he definitely did not want what he was going to say to Wallace to get back to Machin or Lamb or anyone else. He shut the door, pulled up a chair, and sat down facing Wallace across the table. Trying to breathe only through his mouth, he said, ‘Hello, chum.’
Wallace glared at him. Stratton was quite pleased to see that he had the beginnings of a spectacular shiner round his left eye, but less delighted by the man’s obvious determination not to speak at all if he could avoid it.
‘I’m afraid our premises aren’t as smart as Mr Marks’s office,’ Stratton said, ‘but you can’t have everything, can you? In fact,’ he continued, when Wallace offered no response to this sally, ‘you can’t have much of anything, can you, George? Not now. Apart from what you’ll get when Mr Marks finds out what you’ve been up to, of course, and I don’t imagine that’s going to be very pleasant.’
Wallace gave him a sour look, but said nothing. The fact that he didn’t deny Marks’s lack of involvement might, of course, mean that Wallace was protecting his boss, but Stratton, suspecting that Jones had been right, decided to continue in the same vein and see what happened. ‘We reckon you had the best part of half a million cigarettes in that van. So that’s . . .’ Stratton did a rapid mental calculation, adding on black market value, ‘about fifteen hundred quid, give or take. More, perhaps. That’s a lot of money, George. Mr Marks won’t like to miss his share of that, will he?’
‘I just pinched the van,’ said Wallace. ‘I didn’t know what was in the back.’
‘Balls,’ said Stratton. ‘I don’t believe that, and neither will Mr Marks when he hears about it.’ He leant back in his chair and folded his arms. Wallace stared back at him, but with less assurance than before.
‘Well,’ said Stratton, ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’ He let the silence continue for several beats before continuing, in a conversational tone, ‘You’ll be going down for a good while, of course, but I’m sure Mr Marks’s boys’ll be waiting when you come out - if they don’t get you while you’re inside, that is.’ He put his head on one side and contemplated Wallace, who was now looking dangerously pale. ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in my opinion, but it seems to me that you’re fucked either way, George. Frankly, you’re not a pretty sight now, but after they’ve carved you up, you’ll be . . .’ Stratton looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I’d say you’ll be a fair old mess. Of course, I don’t know, but I’d say you’ll be lucky - or you might not be lucky, depending on what they do to you - if you’re still alive when they’ve finished. Mr Marks doesn’t take kindly to people who do the dirty on him, does he?’ Wallace stayed silent, but he was definitely looking as if he might puke at any moment. ‘Or perhaps I’m wrong,’ Stratton added. ‘Perhaps he’ll pat you on the head and feed you a sugar lump.’
Wallace swallowed. ‘What do you want?’
Stratton pretended to consider this for a moment, then said, ‘I want you to tell me what happened at Joe Vincent’s flat.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, I think you do. This is no time for modesty, George. You’re fucked, all right, but you can still do yourself a few favours if you play your cards right.’
‘What happens if I tell you?’
‘Depends how good it is. I’m not a magician, I can’t just make a van load of stolen cigarettes disappear into thin air.’
‘They don’t have to disappear into thin air.’
‘What are you suggesting, George?’
Wallace gave him a meaningful look. ‘If it’s what I think you’re suggesting,’ said Stratton, ‘I wouldn’t say any more, if I were you. In fact, if I were
you
, I’d start telling me about Joe Vincent, pretty damn quick.’
‘We wasn’t thieving,’ said Wallace.
‘We?’
‘Me and the boy.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Johnny Booth.’
Oh, fuck, thought Stratton. The stupid little toe-rag had been there, after all. But there was no proof that either Johnny or Wallace had been there on the day that Mabel Morgan died, only later, when they’d visited Joe Vincent, and Rogers had seen them on the stairs. ‘If you weren’t thieving,’ he asked, ‘what were you doing?’
‘We was collecting something,’ said Wallace. ‘For Abie Marks.’
‘What was it?’
‘A box. A big one. With things in it.’
‘What things?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How were you supposed to recognise this box?’
‘It wasn’t a big place. Not much there. Abie just said to get anything that looked likely, but we couldn’t find it. He said the bloke who lived there was an iron - wouldn’t give us no trouble or go to the police or nothing. He wasn’t there when we started, but then he come in so I had a word with him because we never found anything, but that was no good, so we came away, didn’t we?’
‘Did you?’
Wallace nodded. ‘We’d looked all over, and it was a lot of noise—’
‘When you were hitting Mr Vincent, you mean?’
‘Well, that - and before, bumping around.’
‘And you say you thought Mr Vincent didn’t know where this box was?’
Wallace shook his head. ‘He’d of told us.’
‘Why did you take the photograph of Mabel Morgan?’ asked Stratton.
‘That was for Abie. Said he liked her. Wanted a souvenir, didn’t he?’
‘So you knew that Mabel Morgan lived there?’
‘Well, yes.’ Wallace looked surprised. ‘Abie told us. The box belonged to her, didn’t it?’
‘Did it?’
‘’S what he said.’
‘Who was the box for?’
‘Abie.’
‘No,’ said Stratton. ‘When I asked you about the photograph just now, you said, “that was for Abie.” But the box was for someone else, wasn’t it?’
Wallace looked at him warily. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Sure about that, are you?’
Wallace inclined his head.
‘That’s a shame. A real pity. I was almost persuaded you didn’t know what was in the back of that van, but now . . .’
‘All right. Abie done a favour for a friend.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know the name.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’ Wallace leant forward. ‘Abie never said, but I think it was someone important.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘The way he said it - “Nobody you know” - made me think we was going to a place in Mayfair. I was surprised when he told us where it was.’
‘But no name?’
‘He never said. Just that he was doing this bloke a favour - and there’d be something in it for us if we got this box.’
‘Which you didn’t get.’
‘No, we didn’t. I told Abie what happened, and he said not to worry.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘No. Surprised me a bit.’
‘What did?’
‘Well, he just let it go, didn’t he? Never said another word.’
‘I see. Tell me about Johnny Booth.’
‘He’s just a kid.’ Wallace shrugged. ‘Abie said, take him with you, so I did. Never thought much about it.’
‘Had you met him before?’
‘Seen him around. He done a bit for Abie, here and there. Nothing much. Abie must of took a shine to him.’
‘Local boy?’
‘Don’t know. Don’t think so - only seen him a few times, the last couple of months maybe.’
‘Did you kill Miss Morgan?’
‘No! On my life. She jumped out of the window. It was in the paper.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s true.’
‘But it was there! You can’t . . . We wasn’t there then, only afterwards. ’
‘So Abie told you she was dead, did he?’
Wallace stared at him. ‘No . . . I don’t remember. He just said if anyone was there it would be the iron. He never mentioned no-one else.’
‘He asked you for a souvenir, George.’
‘Yes, but he never said nothing about her - if she was dead or if she’d be there, or . . . After he said this bloke was important, I never asked nothing else about it.’
‘He said the bloke was important. You told me you just thought it.’
Wallace fidgeted for a moment, then muttered, ‘He did say something about him being important. “Friends in high places”, something like that. But he never said who it was.’
‘I see. A man like Mr Marks might do a great deal for friends in high places, George. Might even organise it so that someone fell out of a high window.’
‘We never! God’s truth, Mr Stratton, I never laid a finger on her - never even saw her. I wouldn’t kill an old woman, not for anyone.’
‘She wasn’t an old woman, George. She was forty-seven. Did she look old, without her teeth in?’
‘She—’ Wallace checked himself, then repeated, ‘I never saw her.’
‘I think you did, George. If you’d seen it in the papers, you’d know she wasn’t old. They printed her age.’
‘I never. And I did see it in the papers. You don’t remember how old someone is, do you? Just slipped my mind.’
‘That’s possible, I suppose,’ conceded Stratton. ‘What about churches, George?’
‘Churches?’ Wallace’s look of bewilderment, Stratton thought, was genuine.
‘Our Lady and St. Peter in Eastcastle Street. Ever been there?’
‘No. Never heard of it.’
‘Are you sure about that? It might have been a while ago - February, perhaps? Spot of digging? Good way to keep warm on a cold night.’
‘I’m quite sure,’ said Wallace, firmly. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Judging by the look on his face, he felt himself on secure ground.
‘Fair enough,’ said Stratton. ‘Now then, you’re going back to the cells while I decide what I’m going to do with you.’ The colour, which had, in the last thirty seconds, begun to return to Wallace’s face, drained away once more, leaving his skin the colour of putty.
‘What are you going to do?’ he muttered.
‘I’m going to go and have a nice cup of tea and think about it,’ said Stratton. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m good and ready. Best make yourself comfortable,’ he added with a grin. ‘I’ve a feeling you’re going to be here for quite a while.’
Stratton returned to his office - now mercifully empty - and stood staring out of the window, a not very nice cup of tea provided by Cudlipp in his hand. He definitely needed to think, and fast.
The idea of turning in his own nephew - of what Jenny would say when he told her about Johnny, of Reg’s reaction, of Lilian’s tears - made him feel sick. I should have spoken to the boy earlier, he thought. Instead, he’d justified putting it off, telling himself he’d no business interfering in someone else’s family, even if it was Reg’s. Guilt, anger at Reg for being . . . well, for being Reg, and the thought of upsetting Jenny made his stomach churn.