‘If you like. Of course, I might not know the answer.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
Diana gave a muted shriek. ‘With F-J?’
‘No,’ said Stratton. ‘The man I saw in there.’ He nodded in the direction of Nelson House. ‘The one who took you out to lunch on the day that we first met.’
‘When you came to see Apse, you mean?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, him.’ Stratton thought she was about to dismiss the suggestion as laughable, but instead she said, solemnly, ‘How did you know?’
‘I didn’t. But I thought the two of you seemed friendly.’
‘Yes,’ said Diana. ‘That’s the difficulty. Rather more than a difficulty, actually. What did you think of him?’
‘I only saw him for a moment.’
‘You only saw me for a moment. You must have formed an impression.’
Stratton was tempted to tell her the truth, which was that he’d been too busy looking at her to bother much about Handsome, but he knew this wasn’t what was wanted. He thought that - in so far as he was capable of judging these things - she wanted an honest answer, so he said, ‘I thought he seemed dangerous.’
‘That’s what everyone kept telling me,’ Diana said. ‘A breaker of hearts.’ She laughed again, and added, ‘I am, by the way. In love with him.’
‘And that’s not . . .’ Stratton hesitated. ‘Not good?’
‘No, it isn’t. NBG, in fact.’
‘Because?’
‘Because, Inspector,’ she said, lightly, ‘as you’ve already gathered, I’m married, because F-J is furious about it and has forbidden me to see him again, and because Claude—’
‘That’s what he’s called, is it?’ asked Stratton, thinking that the wretched man would have to have a matinée idol sort of name.
‘Yes. Claude Ventriss. He’s one of F-J’s.’
‘So I gathered,’ said Stratton. ‘He was coming out of his office when I went up last night.’
‘Was he?’ Diana frowned. ‘Claude isn’t the sort of person one ought to fall in love with if one wants to keep one’s sanity.’ She stood up. ‘I can’t imagine why I’m telling you all this.’
‘Because I asked you.’
‘You won’t say anything to F-J, will you? I mean, I honestly have stopped seeing him - not that anyone seems to believe it - but . . .’ She grimaced.
‘Of course not. I hope you didn’t mind my asking.’
‘No, I ought to mind, awfully, but I don’t.’ Glancing upwards, she said, ‘Look, F-J’s summoning us. We’d better go back.’
Following Diana up the stairs, Stratton wondered if she’d meant what she said about keeping her sanity. There was nothing melodramatic about the way she’d said it, and yet it hadn’t seemed altogether a joke - that wouldn’t fit with her clarity about her situation or her apparently passive acceptance of it. But then again, you couldn’t choose who you fell in love with, any more than you could stop loving them if it proved inconvenient or dangerous. But if Claude - Stratton’s lip curled in disgust - Ventriss wasn’t . . . how had she put it . . . The person she thought he was, then surely that would change her feelings about him? NBG, she’d said, but she wasn’t married to the man, so she didn’t have to resign herself to having backed the wrong horse. Stratton eyed her ankles and wondered what her husband was like. Like Ventriss, probably: a man who expected, and took, a woman like Diana as no more than his due. But she’d betrayed him, hadn’t she?
Standing behind her on the landing as she opened the door, Stratton felt the discomfort of disloyalty to his wife. He wondered, gloomily, if he and Jenny would ever be the same again. Would he be condemned forever, with Johnny always between them, and constant, silent accusation - far more effective than shouting - reducing him to an outsider in his own home, a man who was there to pay the bills, to be fed and watered, and nothing more? Reg and Lilian would think that he’d betrayed them, all right . . . And suppose Donald sided with them? If Doris took Lilian’s part, he’d probably have to as well, to keep the peace, and that would mean he’d lost not only his best friend, but his ally. Christ, he thought, I could do with a drink. Numbness, that was what he needed, a good, thick buffer between himself and the whole bloody mess. He wanted to turn round and go back down the stairs, find some spit-and-sawdust place where no-one knew him, sit by himself, and get stewed.
‘Here.’ Forbes-James handed him a large brandy. ‘You look as if you might need it. Diana?’
‘No, thank you, sir.’
‘Well, sit down. I’ll need you to take notes. I’ve spoken to Roper. He’s going to instruct the station at Tottenham, but he won’t mention your name, Stratton. They’ll bring the boy in - attempted burglary, threatening behaviour and so forth - and I’ll see him tomorrow. I want you to take me through the details again, and you’d better tell me a bit about the lad, too. After that, I suggest you get yourself home.’
SIXTY-THREE
It was chilly and raining when Stratton left the pub. He stood in the doorway and peered out at the dark street. When he’d left Dolphin Square, he’d chosen the place deliberately, drawn by the look of it - a grim Victorian building with a funereal aspect, drab and comfortless inside, with a skinny, sour faced barmaid. When he’d asked for whisky, she’d jerked her thumb at a crudely chalked sign saying No Spirits and said, ‘Sorry’, in a voice that sounded anything but.
The bar had been almost empty when he’d arrived, but it had filled up remarkably quickly. A sluttish girl with tow-coloured hair and a loud, nasal voice had her large, flat bottom pressed right against the edge of the small table where he sat, his back to the wall. She was surrounded by four men, but as she seemed to treat them all with the same combination of familiarity and disdain, Stratton couldn’t tell which one was ‘with’ her. Next to this group stood two hefty, masculine looking women, dressed in trousers and armbands, and beside those a large number of soldiers, as well as older men in suits and overcoats, huddled in twos and threes, and a sprinkling of young couples.
After almost three hours spent intermittently fighting his way to the bar and back, Stratton was tipsy, but nowhere near as drunk as he wanted to be. Normally a two or, at most, three-pint man, he hadn’t reckoned with the difficulty of getting tight on nothing but watered-down beer, even if it was chasing Forbes-James’s generous brandy.
‘Christ,’ he muttered, turning the collar of his overcoat up against the spitefully gusting wind. It was absurd - the only occasion of his life, so far as he could remember, when he’d actually tried to get a skinful, and he couldn’t manage it. At least, he thought, as he walked, only slightly unsteadily, towards Victoria station, he might be spared a hangover, although, given the circumstances, the nausea and general dreariness of it would probably come as a blessing if it dulled the pain of his situation.
By the time Stratton reached home, he felt sober once more. Dreading his reception, he tried to make his entry as quiet as possible, but Jenny must have heard him fumbling with his key because the door was suddenly yanked open and she threw herself into his arms. ‘I’ve been so worried!’
‘It’s all right, love.’ Stratton half-carried her the few steps into the hall and closed the door with some difficulty, as she refused to let him go. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been . . .’
‘Drinking.’ Jenny looked up at him, half-sobbing, half-laughing. ‘You smell like a brewery, but it doesn’t matter. You’re here, thank God! It’s been terrible. Lilian came round this afternoon. I was upstairs but I knew it was her because she called through the door, so I pretended I wasn’t here. I was sure she was going to let herself in, but she didn’t, thank God. I felt so bad about it, and then Doris came about half-past seven, when they took Johnny - she was at Lilian and Reg’s, her and Donald, and Lilian told her to come round and fetch you . . . I didn’t know what to say to Doris, Ted. She said Lilian was in hysterics, and she kept telling her you’d said the boy’d done nothing wrong and she wanted you to go to the station and get it all cleared up so he could come home. Doris wanted me to go over there, but I couldn’t, Ted, I just couldn’t! Not knowing . . . She kept asking what the matter was, and in the end I had to tell her - about the burglary, not the other. I’m sorry, Ted, but I had to.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton, rubbing her back. ‘I understand.’
‘Doris didn’t speak to me, Ted. Didn’t say a word, just looked at me and then she left. Such a look . . . And now she’ll tell Lilian, and Lilian’ll know I didn’t answer the door to her and they’ll never speak to me again . . . And then when you didn’t come back, I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. I was just so worried, and thinking about Lilian, and Doris, and Reg . . . I thought I was going mad!’
‘I should have been here,’ said Stratton, helplessly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ said Jenny, through tears. ‘It’s all right. I understand why you didn’t come back.’
‘Do you?’
Jenny nodded. ‘You did what was right. I know it wasn’t easy for you.’
‘Are you on my side, then? You don’t hate me?’
‘Course not.’
Stratton planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Thank you, love.’ They stood there, embracing, looking at each other, looking away, and holding each other tighter still, until Stratton felt like crying too, from sheer relief. Jenny, her face buried in his chest, heard him clear his throat and poked a finger in his ribs. ‘Don’t you start,’ she whispered. ‘Can’t have both of us turning on the waterworks, or we’ll drown.’
A loud bang on the door behind them made them both jump. ‘It’s Donald. Can I have a word?’
Stratton and Jenny exchanged glances, then Stratton released her, and went to open the door. Donald’s face, half in shadow, gave Stratton no idea what he was thinking. Bracing himself for recrimination or abuse, he was taken aback when Donald said, quietly, ‘I don’t blame you, mate. It’s not your fault.’
Stratton could tell that he meant it. ‘Thanks, Don. Why don’t you come in?’
‘Can’t stay long.’ Donald followed him into the kitchen. ‘Doris is still with Lilian. She’s in a hell of a state.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Stratton, grimly. ‘Have a seat. How’s Reg?’
‘Never seen him like it,’ said Donald, pulling out a chair. ‘I thought he’d . . .’ he glanced at Jenny, who had sat down next to Stratton and put her hand in his, ‘well, you know . . . when the police came, but he didn’t. Not a word. As if he’d been struck dumb. Poor Lilian was crying her eyes out, but he just stood there as if he couldn’t really take it in. I don’t blame him, poor chap. What a business.’
‘I couldn’t—’ Stratton began, but Donald cut him off.
‘It’s all right. You don’t have to explain, Ted. It’s your job. If Johnny’s been stealing, that’s—’
‘It’s worse than that,’ Jenny interrupted. ‘You might as well tell him, Ted. Everyone’s going to know soon enough.’
‘Worse?’ Donald looked at Stratton for confirmation.
‘I think I’ll leave you to it.’ Jenny squeezed his hand. ‘I’ll go upstairs and lie down till the siren goes.’
They watched her go, then Stratton said, ‘I don’t blame her not wanting to hear it all again. It’s knocked her for six.’ Donald listened closely to his explanation, his eyes narrowed. There was a long silence after Stratton had finished, then Donald said, ‘Bloody hell.’
Stratton nodded.
‘I mean, what was he playing at? I know he’s got himself into a few scrapes in the past, but I never thought . . . something like that . . . I don’t know how I’m going to tell Doris.’
‘Best not say anything to Reg or Lilian. They’ll know soon enough.’
‘It’s going to be bloody difficult, Ted. I can see why you didn’t . . . Why you were keeping it quiet. Sets everyone against each other . . . Jesus, I never thought I’d feel sorry for Reg, though. Properly, I mean, not just sorry for him because he’s Reg and a . . .’ Donald rolled his eyes, then added, ‘Not that it isn’t mostly his fault, how the boy’s turned out.’
‘That’s another thing,’ said Stratton. ‘When I was talking to Johnny, I said something about Reg, and he said he was an old fool and he knew how much we - you and me - despised him.’
‘Christ,’ said Donald, with feeling.
‘I didn’t know what to say to him. No point denying it.’
‘No.’
‘Johnny hates him.’
‘Christ,’ said Donald, again. ‘Do you think we should have done something?’
‘I keep asking myself that. But we couldn’t have done anything about Reg being Reg, could we?’
Donald shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine it, though,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Feeling that way about your dad.’
‘Me neither. I liked the old boy. Bit set in his ways, perhaps, but . . .’
‘Yeah. What’ll happen to Johnny? I mean, will they charge him with burglary, or with this other . . .’
‘Don’t know yet. It’s complicated.’ Stratton didn’t elaborate, and Donald didn’t ask him to, just sat there muttering ‘Christ,’ to himself at intervals, while Stratton, without asking, poured the last of the Christmas whisky into a couple of glasses.
They drank in silence for a moment, then Donald said, ‘They won’t hang him, will they?’