Wymark, sprawled on the floor, did not reply. Stratton had expected argument, protestation, even threats, but the man simply shook his head, as if disgusted by the whole business. Behind them, the girl in the bed began to howl wordlessly, like a trapped animal. ‘Come on.’ Seeing that the fight had gone out of Wymark, Stratton took hold of his elbow and pulled him to his feet. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can talk.’ He put a hand on the man’s back and propelled him into the corridor, where he stood passively and allowed two of the constables to button up his pyjama jacket and hand-cuff him before letting them march him away, head down, to the waiting van.
Stratton ushered the policewoman into the bedroom, with instructions to calm the girl down, and went through to the flat’s small sitting room, where various pieces of male and female clothing discarded on the floor, or draped over items of furniture, marked the progress of Wymark and his paramour towards the bed. He called in the remaining constable and said, ‘You’d better pick up this lot and take it to the bedroom.’
Scarlet-faced, the young man cleared his throat, ‘You don’t want me to go in there, Sir?’
‘Of course not! Just tap on the door and leave them outside. And let me know when she’s dressed.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Relieved, the man’s voice was several tones lower. As Stratton turned away to hide his grin, Forbes-James appeared from the bedroom. ‘We need to search the whole place.’
‘Shouldn’t take too long, sir.’ The flat had an impersonal look about it, with tasteful modern furniture and few ornaments, and was, scattered clothing excepted, extremely tidy. Stratton watched as the constable picked up the remaining item of clothing - a brassiere - and, holding it out in front of him with his fingertips as if afraid it might burst into flames at any moment, left the room. ‘You start in here,’ said Forbes-James. ‘I’ll take the kitchen. We’ll do the bedroom when we’ve dealt with the girl.’
The search, which was easy enough, was accompanied by hysterical shrieks from the bedroom, and the soothing tones of the policewoman, who was evidently having some difficulty coaxing the girl into her clothes. Stratton, having found nothing in the sitting room, went to find Forbes-James in the tiny kitchen. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘Nor me. Must be in the bedroom.’
The young constable put his head round the door, ‘She’s ready, sir.’
‘Right.’
The girl, pallid, tousled and tear-stained, was waiting in the corridor, the policewoman’s arm around her shoulders. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘let me go.’
‘Sorry,’ said Stratton. ‘What’s your name, miss?’
‘The Honourable Helen Pender,’ said the girl, with an attempt at dignity. ‘My father is Lord Calne. You’ll let me go now, won’t you?’
‘No, miss.’
‘Please . . .’ turning to Forbes-James, who clearly struck her as someone of the right sort, she said, ‘Tell him to let me go.’
‘Impossible, I’m afraid,’ said Forbes-James.
‘But my father—’
‘Is Lord Calne,’ finished Forbes-James, calmly. ‘Nevertheless, we need to ask you some questions.’
‘You can’t arrest me!’
‘We’re not arresting you,’ said Stratton. ‘At least, not for the moment. Now, why don’t you go in here’ - he indicated the sitting room - ‘and sit down quietly.’ Glaring at him through her tears, the girl consented to be led away. Forbes-James waited until the policewoman had closed the door, then beckoned Stratton into the bedroom.
‘Did you know about her?’ Stratton asked.
‘We had an idea.’ Forbes-James opened the door of the wardrobe and began lifting up piles of shirts and underwear. After a few seconds of this he said, ‘Here we are,’ and held up a leather briefcase. ‘You might as well check the rest of the room,’ he told Stratton, ‘but I’m pretty sure it’s all here. And not even locked.’
As Stratton pulled open the rest of the drawers, Forbes-James undid the clasps of the briefcase and slid the contents - a thick wad of papers - onto the bed. ‘Must be over a hundred documents there,’ said Stratton, appreciatively.
‘At least. And,’ Forbes-James thrust a hand into the bottom of the briefcase and produced a pair of keys, ‘these. Duplicates, by the look of it.’ He compared the edges. ‘Same lock. And,’ he fished in an inside pocket and pulled out a single sheet of paper, covered on both sides in handwriting, ‘this.’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘It looks like a list of the Right Club members. Very useful.’ He pocketed the paper and gave the keys to Stratton. ‘Take these to Mr Ritter, would you? I imagine they’re for the embassy code room.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Stratton went to find Ritter who was standing outside the door of the flat like a guardsman, but still, Stratton noticed, twisting the ring on his little finger. When he returned to the bedroom Forbes-James was shovelling the papers back inside the briefcase.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We can go.’
‘What about the girl, sir?’
‘I don’t imagine she knows about this lot,’ Forbes-James tapped the briefcase, ‘but we’ll have to make sure. I’m afraid you will have to arrest her. Regulation 18B. I’m sure you know the drill.’
Stratton, who had feared that this might be the case and who did know the drill, nodded glumly. More hysterics. ‘Is the van still downstairs?’ he asked.
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘They’ve gone to Brixton. She’ll have to come with us. You can drop her directly at Holloway - I’ll let them know - and then the car can take you home.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’
‘Not at all.’ Forbes-James smiled. ‘Long day - and there’ll be another tomorrow.’
FORTY-SEVEN
Jenny stood on the path and watched as the bulky shape of the car disappeared into the darkness. ‘I’ve been so worried, Ted. And when I heard a car, and it stopped outside, I thought . . .’
‘I know, love.’ Stratton hugged her. ‘It’s all right, I’m here now.’
‘Did you really come all the way home in that?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you impressed?’
‘It was enormous! I couldn’t think what it was doing here. When I heard it, I thought something terrible must have happened.’
‘Well, it hasn’t. Come on, you’ve left the door wide open. We’d better get inside before the warden rolls up and fines us for showing a light.’
They stumbled down the path, arm in arm, and went inside. ‘Your dinner’s all dried up,’ said Jenny, ‘but I can make you a sandwich. There’s a bit of cheese left.’
‘Don’t worry, love. I’m too tired.’
‘You must have some food, Ted.’
‘I’m fine. I had Dover Sole for lunch.’ Which, thought Stratton, felt like a very long time ago, to his brain if not to his stomach.
‘Did you go to a restaurant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t talk about it, love.’
‘But you can tell me about the food, can’t you?’
‘I suppose so. It was a very smart place. French waiters. We’ve still got a bit of that Scotch from last Christmas, haven’t we? I wouldn’t mind a spot of that. Put it in a mug and I’ll take it out to the Anderson with me.’
Stratton lit a cigarette and waited on the back lawn for Jenny to come down from the bedroom. He stood in the darkness, sipping his Scotch and enjoying the warm sensation as it went down, although he wasn’t that keen on the taste - not that he’d ever drunk any really good Scotch, not like the sort of stuff Colonel Forbes-James would have. Presumably, he must have felt Stratton had done all right or he wouldn’t have offered the ride home. Stratton was surprised at how much this pleased him. There was definitely something about the man that made you want his approval. He wondered if Diana Calthrop felt like that, too.
Jenny shut the back door and joined him. ‘It’s all on the other side of London tonight, thank goodness. Let’s hope they don’t come this way.’
‘It’d take more than the Luftwaffe to keep me awake tonight. Let’s go in, shall we?’
As they readied themselves for bed, moving round each other in the narrow space down the middle of the Anderson, Jenny said, ‘I do wish we had a telephone, Ted.’
‘I know, love. It can’t be helped. But even if we did, you can’t always get through.’
‘But if you did, then at least I’d know you were all right. It’s horrible waiting and not knowing.’
Stratton bent over and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘And you haven’t told me about your lovely meal. Did you have a sweet?’
They chatted for a bit before Jenny fell asleep, but Stratton, who thought he’d be out like a light as soon as his head touched the pillow, found himself taking stock of the day’s events. Hell of a turn-up for the books, being summoned like that. Colonel Forbes-James had clearly decided that he was more use working with them than blundering around on his own. Stratton wondered what DCI Machin and SDI Roper had had to say about it, and what Lamb would say when he came back. Good riddance, probably. When he returned to Great Marlborough Street - or to West End Central, assuming it was habitable - Lamb would take a great deal of pleasure in making sure he hadn’t got too big for his boots working for MI5. Because that’s who Forbes-James was, he was sure of it. The man hadn’t said as much, just War Office, but he had to be.
The Honourable Helen Pender had been stunned when he’d unloaded her at Holloway, and Stratton couldn’t blame her. All those brasses yelling their heads off, then the wardress had kept her in reception, in a tiny cubicle the size of a toilet, for over an hour. He had asked if the prison doctor could give her something to calm her, but he didn’t suppose the woman would pass on his request. He hoped the doctor would be more sympathetic. It was pure spite on the part of the wardress because of who the Honourable Helen was and what she was in for. Stratton knew the girl would be horrified when she saw the filthy cells, with their lumpy mattresses and canvas sheets, and the air permeated with the stench of unemptied chamber pots - not to mention the appalling food, and the shock and helplessness at being locked in. Still, being held under Regulation 18B meant that she’d be able to wear her own clothes and receive parcels, and at least Holloway wasn’t verminous, which was more than could be said for Brixton, which was where Wymark had been taken. Stratton sighed. He felt sorry for the girl because she was young, stupid and, in his opinion, had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And Wymark had been all set to scarper and leave her to face the music, although he couldn’t have hoped to get far in pyjamas and bare feet. Idiot, Stratton thought, trying to make himself comfortable on the narrow bunk. He must try to get some sleep. As Forbes-James had said, long day tomorrow . . .
FORTY-EIGHT
‘Are you all right, Mrs Calthrop?’ asked Stratton.
‘I’m sorry.’ Diana leant against the outer wall of the prison. Her face was pale, and, as she reached for the cigarette he offered, he saw that her hand shook. As they huddled together to shield the match from the November wind, she said, ‘I’ve never been inside a prison before. It was rather a shock, that’s all. And Helen’s reaction - although I suppose I should have been prepared for that.’
Stratton, who’d been astonished at Forbes-James’s insistence that Diana accompany him to Holloway to question Helen Pender, and frankly shocked that the Honorable Helen, such a well-brought up girl, knew so many filthy words, said, ‘You mustn’t take any notice of that. You were doing your job.’
‘Sticks and stones, I suppose.’ The laugh was weak, but it was a start. She’s a tough one, Stratton thought. Tough as well as striking, standing there on those long legs with her hair, loosened from its pins where the hysterical Helen had made a grab for it, blowing round her face. ‘You must get a lot of that sort of thing in your work.’
‘Quite a bit,’ he replied, surprised that she should think of him when she was obviously upset.
Diana picked a shred of tobacco off her lip, contemplated it for a moment, then said, ‘Do you like being a policeman?’
Nonplussed, Stratton said, ‘I suppose so. It’s my job.’
‘Are you glad you chose it? I mean, you wouldn’t rather be doing some other kind of work?’
‘Bit late for that now if I did. But it’s all right. Good and bad, same as any job.’ He knew this wasn’t an adequate answer to her question, but couldn’t think what else to say. He wanted to say something to comfort or at least engage her, to try and draw her thoughts away from the memory of the almost deranged girl who had snarled and spat and made incoherent threats, but he didn’t know how to do it.
‘I’ve led a jolly sheltered life,’ said Diana. ‘I suppose lots of people have, but the war’s changed all that, hasn’t it?’
About bloody time, thought Stratton, but aloud he said, ‘Things are changing. They have to, you know.’
‘Yes, they do,’ she said, with a vehemence that surprised him. As they stood smoking in silence, he wondered what someone like her could possibly know about things needing to change. He thought of all the crumbling houses he’d been in, with fungus on the walls and shared toilets that flooded and stank, whose inhabitants existed on bread and margarine. What could she know about that? She probably had no idea such places even existed. Perhaps she was talking about something else.