Read Stratton's War Online

Authors: Laura Wilson

Stratton's War (45 page)

‘But if she was acting for the Right Club, what would be the point of incriminating Sir Neville? If it’s blackmail, they could have put pressure on him. You’ve seen the film, sir.’
‘Yes,’ said Forbes-James, ‘and so have you. But we don’t know if anyone else has, do we? Diana’s been spending a lot of time with members of the Right Club, and she has also been having an affair with one of my men - a double agent who who arrived from Lisbon several months ago, briefed by the Abwehr, although she did begin the infiltration before she met him. And while this man has given me no reason to believe that he is anything but reliable, and Diana tells me she has broken off the liaison, one can’t be absolutely certain about either of those things.’
So I was right, thought Stratton. The chap who took her out to lunch . . .
‘As I mentioned earlier,’ said Forbes-James, ‘beautiful women are vulnerable.’
‘But why would Mrs Calthrop tell you about a coded message in Sir Neville’s flat? If she’s acting for the Right Club, she’d know that the code could be broken and the whole thing could be traced back to Wymark. And if she’s working in Germany’s interests, surely that includes keeping America out of the war, and anything that would stop Mr Roosevelt from being re-elected would help that. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘You mean it doesn’t seem to make sense,’ said Forbes-James.
That’s because I don’t know what the fuck is going on, thought Stratton. ‘What about Miss Pender this morning?’ he asked.
‘She may not have been aware of the situation.’
‘But all the same...’
‘The Right Club may have had other reasons for wanting to discredit Apse, and Diana may not have known how easily the code could be broken. Or - and this is entirely possible - she may have been given the wrong document by mistake.’
Stratton gaped at him.
‘Believe me, such things have happened. It’s quite astonishing how easily the best laid plan can turn into the most almighty cock-up, ’ said Forbes-James, blandly. ‘Happens all the time, especially in war.’
‘But if Mrs Calthrop is involved,’ Stratton persisted, ‘how would she have access to these neutral countries?’
‘Through my double agent,’ said Forbes-James. ‘As I mentioned, his Abwehr contacts are in Lisbon. It’s all a question,’ he continued, ‘of looking at things from every angle. It’s unlikely, but not impossible. One mustn’t take anything for granted.’
‘Christ,’ said Stratton.
‘My sentiments exactly. More Scotch?’
‘Thank you, sir. I feel as if I need it.’
They drank in silence for a moment, then Stratton said, ‘May I ask something, sir?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why didn’t you let me question Sir Neville about the body in the church?’
‘He’s already denied having anything to do with it.’
‘But it was his handkerchief, sir. We made sure of it. It’s all in my notes.’
‘I know that, but there are ways of doing these things, and we need more information before we go any further. Softly, softly, and all that. Besides,’ Forbes-James smiled, ‘I could see you weren’t particularly keen on him.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I wasn’t.’ Sir Neville’s air of amusement - the mental shrug at the world in general and, Stratton felt, at him in particular, had rankled, as it had at their first meeting, but he hadn’t realised he’d let it show. The all-too-visible chip on the shoulder: exactly what someone like Sir Neville - and Forbes-James and, when you came down to it, Diana Calthrop - would expect from a person of his class.
‘You’ll get your opportunity, I assure you,’ said Forbes-James. ‘But first, we need to go and talk to Peverell Montague. They’ll have taken him in by now, and our driver will be waiting.’
 
‘I imagine,’ said Forbes-James, as they went down to the car, ‘that you are thinking you’d like to strangle the lot of us with our old school ties.’ This was pretty much exactly what Stratton had been thinking. He didn’t see any real point in denying it, but before he could reply, Forbes-James continued, ‘Incidentally, I agree that it is probably a question of blackmail. Although Mrs Calthrop is compromised, I think her involvement is highly unlikely.’
Then what the hell was all that about, Stratton wanted to ask, but said nothing. As they drove along the Embankment towards Albert Bridge, he thought of the Indian waiter in the ruins of West End Central Station. You think I know bugger all, Colonel, he mouthed silently, and you’re right. I haven’t got a fucking clue.
FIFTY
Diana had gone home with nothing to look forward to but an evening of sitting alone and fretting, followed by an uncomfortable night in the basement shelter. Unlike the night before last . . . Seeing Claude like that, leaning on the railings, had taken the wind out of her sails, but that was no excuse for her pathetic capitulation. How could she, after what Lally had said to her? She had gone over and over it in her mind, trying to decide who and what to believe, but had come to no conclusion. She felt so guilty, convinced that everyone knew what she’d been up to, as if Claude’s fingerprints were visibly stamped all over her skin. And when Helen Pender had shouted at her . . . she flinched at the memory of her voice, filling the small, drab room:
Bitch, traitor, turncoat, whore
. . . She’d told herself again and again that the girl was furious and upset, but she couldn’t get that last word out of her mind.
Whore
. It seemed to reverberate all around her and, no matter how often she told herself that Helen could know nothing about Claude, it didn’t do any good.
 
At half-past nine, after a couple of hours of trying, and failing, to concentrate on a novel, the siren sounded. Diana gathered her belongings and was just about to change into her slacks and go down to the shelter when the bell rang. Claude? She threw the slacks onto the bed and flew down the stairs to the door. But it wasn’t Claude, it was Guy. His uniform was dishevelled, his eyes glassy, and he staggered as he crossed the threshold.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘That’s a nice way to greet your husband.’ He swung his kitbag off his shoulder and dropped it on the hall floor. ‘Change of plan.’ His voice was loud, with a sort of belligerent joviality. ‘Got here a couple of days early. Want to see your flat.’
Diana backed away from him. ‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Very osser . . . osservant. Is it upstairs?’
‘Darling, I told you, it isn’t big enough for two people.’
‘Just one night, then I’ll go to my club.’
‘We can’t, Guy. The raid’s started.’ The thought of taking him down to the shelter and facing the curious eyes of the other people in the house was unbearable. Supposing someone had spotted Claude leaving her flat? People talked. Again, she heard Helen’s shrill voice shouting ‘Whore!’
‘Don’t care,’ Guy persisted. ‘Want to see.’
‘Please, darling . . .’ Diana patted his arm, thinking to placate him. ‘You can’t stay here.’
‘Want to stay here. Tired. Want to go to bed.’
‘Very well. But we’ll have to go down to the shelter.’
‘No. Coming with me.’ He caught hold of her wrist, and shook it like a dog worrying a bone. ‘With me,’ he insisted.
Defeated, and afraid of being overheard, Diana said, wearily, ‘I’ll take you upstairs.’ Perhaps he’d go to sleep straight away, and she’d be able to escape.
‘Come on.’ Towing him upstairs, his kitbag banging against the banisters with each step, she tried not to remember her eager ascent with Claude.
While Guy dumped the kitbag on the bed, Diana looked wildly around for any evidence of Claude’s presence. Mercifully, there seemed to be nothing.
‘Nice li’l place,’ Guy slurred. ‘What’s to drink?’
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’
‘No,’ he said aggressively. ‘I don’t.’ He plonked himself down on the stool in front of her dressing table and stared at her expectantly. Diana shrugged, poured him some whisky, and approached him cautiously, holding out the glass in her palm as if it were a sugar lump for an unpredictable horse. Guy lunged, grabbed her hips and pulled her towards him. Propelled forwards, she tottered, just managing to hold on to the Scotch. ‘Don’t. You’ll spill it.’
‘Put it down.’
Obediently, Diana deposited it on a corner of the dressing table. ‘Please let go of me,’ she said, quietly.
‘No.’ Guy’s face, brick-red and loose-lipped, tilted up to hers for a moment, and then he closed his eyes and laid his head against her stomach.
‘Stop it!’ She jerked backwards, so that he pitched forwards, head down, almost falling off the stool. Righting himself, he picked up the whisky, peered in the glass as if considering some experimental brew, and drank. ‘You’re a bitch, Diana.’
Helen’s abuse echoed again in her mind as she stood in the middle of the room. Her guilt, and her revulsion, overwhelmed her. She’d never thought of Guy here, in her little sanctuary, but his uncontrolled presence, leering and touching her and breathing whisky fumes over everything, was worse than she could have imagined. This man in front of her was her husband. How had it come to this? ‘Maybe I am,’ she said, wearily.
‘You are a bitch. But . . .’ Guy’s face brightened, as if he’d been struck by a new and revolutionary idea, ‘you’re my bitch. My wife, in fact. My’ - he belched - ‘woman. And you’re here, and I’m here. Isn’t that nice?’
‘Yes,’ Diana agreed, ‘Lovely.’ Surely, if she could just humour him, keep him talking for long enough, he would fall asleep? She wondered if she should try coaxing him onto the bed. He was bound to start pawing her, but if he were horizontal the alcohol might take effect more quickly . . . She wondered how much he’d had. Perhaps it was too soon to gamble on his passing out. She’d never seen Guy drunk before - tipsy, yes, but never like this - so she couldn’t be sure what stage he’d reached. Some men fell asleep, she knew, but others got lecherous, or wanted to sing or fight, or even started to cry . . . It seemed extraordinary not to know what type one’s own husband was.
She was just about to ask if he wanted more Scotch when he lifted up his hands like the paws of a begging dog. ‘Won’t you be kind to me?’ he whined. ‘Please?’
Diana felt sick. Guy pretended to pant, sticking out a yellow, furred tongue, then made a puppyish whimpering noise. Unable to stop herself, she turned away in disgust.
‘No!’ Her scent bottles clattered, then toppled over, as he pounded the dressing table with the flat of his hand. ‘Christ’s sake, Diana, ’smatter with you?’
It occurred to her that the easiest thing to do would be to take the line of least resistance - give him what he wanted, then he’d go to sleep and she could go downstairs. All she had to do was walk towards him - three steps - and then . . . And in any case, he might not be able to, so that would be that . . . But supposing he could, and she became pregnant? Without the device, there was every chance of that happening. Claude might be relied upon, but pregnancy was exactly what Guy wanted. ‘What about another drink?’ she asked. She was aiming for a light tone, but the words came out shrill and nervous.
Guy got to his feet and lumbered towards her. ‘You’re my wife,’ he snarled, and, taking her by the shoulders, pulled her to him. Pinioned, she twisted frantically from side to side, shaking her head, elbowing and clawing, as they staggered together towards the bed. Pulling one arm free, she slapped him, hard, across the face. He tottered backwards for a moment, releasing her, then fell sprawling on his back, his eyes wide with shock.
Diana seized her handbag and ran from the flat, down the stairs, and into the darkness of the street where the raid was in full swing. Flares and flashes of light pierced the blackout, the drone of aeroplanes and the boom of guns sounded continuously, and the smell of escaping gas was coming from somewhere nearby. Keeping close to the railings of the houses, she made her way towards the tube station at Sloane Square. Judging by the length of the whistling sounds before the explosions, the bombs were falling a mile or so away, somewhere to her left - Knightsbridge? Paddington? For God’s sake, Diana thought, don’t come any closer. I don’t want to die now, not like this, not in this state . . . What did Catholics talk about? A state of grace, that was it. Well, whatever the opposite of that was, she was in it.

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