‘Certainly, Your Lordship. I’ll stick a broom up my arse and sweep the floor at the same time, shall I?’
‘Why not?’ said Stratton. ‘Might stop you talking out of it. By the way, I don’t suppose they gave Wallace a bath, did they, at Brixton?’
‘No, they bloody didn’t, and I’ve had complaints about that from downstairs, too, which is saying something. I’m buggered if I’m going to be responsible for the fucker’s personal hygiene, so bring your gas mask.’
As Stratton replaced the receiver, Diana, who looked as if she might have been crying, appeared with a cup of coffee, and beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the kitchen before he could say any more than ‘thank you’. Stratton wondered if it was that bastard Ventriss, or bad news about her husband, or both, but her manner suggested that neither questions nor sympathy would be welcome, so he decided not to pursue it.
He cleared some papers off the sofa and sat down. Somehow, he didn’t think that Johnny’s bravado would last long. Policemen were one thing, but Forbes-James, the man from the War Office with his smart clothes and educated voice, was something else entirely: a manifestation of the full weight and majesty of law, government and authority. Stratton could picture the scene; Johnny’s night in the cells might have begun in a mood of defiance, but he’d lay good money that it was ending in one of abject submission. He felt almost sorry for the boy. Men like Forbes-James made
him
feel out of his depth, and Johnny, with his head full of celluloid gangsters and no real experience of the world, wouldn’t stand a chance.
At some point - he didn’t know exactly when - he must have nodded off, because the next thing he heard was a woman’s voice saying, ‘Edward,’ and, when he opened his eyes, Diana’s beautiful, troubled face was inches from his own. For a moment, before he remembered where he was, he thought he must be dreaming, and was just starting to enjoy it when she shook his arm and said, ‘Wake up, Edward. F-J’s back.’
‘Oh. Yes. Right. Sorry.’ Stratton sat upright, blinked, and felt like an idiot.
‘It’s all right.’ Diana gave him a wan smile. ‘We thought you must be terribly tired to go off to sleep like that, so we left you.’
‘What’s the time?’ asked Stratton.
‘Quarter to eleven. I’ll make some more coffee.’
‘Wait . . .’ Stratton put out a hand to stop her. ‘Are you . . . I mean, you looked - before . . .’ Diana’s smile became fixed, and he stopped, embarrassed.
‘It’s nice of you to ask,’ she said, briskly, ‘but I’m quite all right. You mustn’t worry about me.’
No, thought Stratton, watching her neat ankles as she left the room, I mustn’t.
Forbes-James arrived a few minutes later, his round face haggard with fatigue. Stratton wondered how long he’d been at the station, but before he could ask, Forbes-James tugged a typed carbon out of his briefcase, thrust it at him and said, ‘Here. Booth’s statement.’ He disappeared without waiting for a reply, and a second later Stratton heard him asking Diana to find him a clean shirt.
He settled down to read what his nephew - or rather, the presiding officer, since it was full of police words and phrases - had to say. It was a long statement, four or five hours’ worth, Stratton thought.
I have been cautioned by Chief Inspector Naughton, and told that I am not obliged to say anything unless I wish to do so
...Then a long preamble about how Johnny had lost his job at Hartree’s Garage and was looking for other work and how he had met George Wallace in a café in the West End and been taken to see Abie Marks at the billiard hall on the promise of some employment.
On the 13th June I accompanied Mr Wallace to a house in Conway Street, to visit a woman I know now to be Miss Mabel Morgan. This was between 4pm and 5pm. Miss Morgan admitted us to the premises. The visit was undertaken on behalf of Mr A. Marks. Miss Morgan had incurred a debt from him and he wished to obtain the money. She told Mr Marks that she had some valuable pieces to give him to defray the cost of the money owing, and Mr Wallace and I went to the premises where she lived for the purpose of collecting these goods.
It might have been what Johnny was told, thought Stratton, but it sounded like bollocks to him. Why would Abie Marks lend money to Mabel Morgan without first making sure of his security? And if Mabel knew of their visit in advance, she would surely have put her teeth in . . . unless they’d fallen out of her mouth when Wallace hit her. Byrne hadn’t mentioned any bruising to her face, but then he hadn’t been looking for it, and what with the scars and the thick make-up, it might not have been particularly obvious. He carried on reading:
Mr Wallace asked Miss Morgan if she had the goods, and she said she did not. She said, ‘I think you are mad. I do not know what you are talking about.’ Then she started a terrific argument with Mr Wallace and tried to slap his face so he pushed her. She was standing near the window at that time, and she fell back. We saw her go out of the window. I did not touch or push her and Mr Wallace did not touch her again after pushing her once. We left the house quickly after that. We could see her where she was over the railings and I said to Mr Wallace that she looked in a bad way
.
No kidding, murmured Stratton.
I asked if we should do something but Wallace said ‘No, leave it,’ so we returned to the billiard hall to see Mr Marks. He went with Mr Wallace to a room at the back to speak to him. I was not present but I heard shouting and I heard Mr Marks say ‘What is this rubbish you are telling me?’ Then he said, ‘It is no good’. When they came out of the room Mr Wallace said he was sorry. Mr Marks told us that the matter would be concluded another way and he would speak to Mr Wallace later. I went home to Tottenham after that.’
Mr Wallace and myself returned to the house in Conway Street on the 17th June to speak to Mr Vincent about the goods as Mr Marks had told us to do. We were admitted by a man.
(Rogers, thought Stratton.)
It was after 10pm but Mr Vincent was not there so we waited until he came back which was at about 11pm. Mr Wallace asked Mr Vincent if he had some things for us to take away. Mr Vincent said ‘You have made a mistake.’ He said he had nothing for us and that we should leave. He was in a temper and pushed Mr Wallace out of the way. Mr Wallace said a few words to him, which I could not hear, before we left the house. I have not seen Mr Wallace since that time. I have seen Mr A. Marks. I received £10 from him. I have read this statement and everything I have said is the truth
.
Pull the other one, thought Stratton. Joe got the black eye by magic, did he? Johnny claimed that Wallace had not instigated violence on either occasion, there was no mention of threats, or damage to Joe Vincent’s flat, and the statement suggested that he himself had been merely an onlooker. That part of it, Stratton reflected, might well be correct, and the thing was, he felt, generally right. Johnny, lured by the glamour of gangs and the prospect of easy money, had become, for a short time, a minor henchman. He sincerely hoped that the stuff about Mabel falling from the window - which was pretty damn vague - was at least accurate where the boy was concerned. They’d probably never know the truth about her death, but, judging by Johnny’s report of the exchange between Wallace and Marks at the billiard hall, it hadn’t been part of the original plan. Maybe Mabel had . . . what was it? Stratton looked through the statement again:
She started a terrific argument with Mr Wallace and tried to slap his face
. . . Beryl Vincent, the first time he’d met her, had described Mabel as not afraid to speak her mind. Poor woman. He hoped she’d put up a good fight, but she must have been terrified, especially in those last few seconds, when she realised she was falling, and then the impact . . . It didn’t bear thinking about. Good job Johnny isn’t here now, he thought savagely. I’d give him something to think about, all right . . .
Stratton read through the statement once more, and then again, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them wide and rubbed his face violently, trying to force himself to concentrate. If only he wasn’t so bloody tired.
‘Finished?’ Forbes-James was standing in the doorway with Diana, holding a tray of coffee, behind him.
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘He wants to see you.’ Stratton could imagine how that conversation had gone: tell me what I want to know and you get a visit from Uncle Ted. Otherwise, forget it. Coupled with being woken up in the middle of the night - if he’d managed to sleep at all, that is - questioned for hours, and then the relief when it was over and they left you in peace. He’d orchestrated this enough times to know how it worked. ‘We’ll see Wallace first,’ Forbes-James added. ‘This time, you can do the talking. Do you have any more information? ’
‘Only that Wallace is at Great Marlborough Street.’
Forbes-James frowned. ‘Not Pentonville?’
‘Some sort of cock-up. Sorry, Mrs Calthrop,’ he said to Diana, who was bending over the coffee cups. ‘An HE bomb or something. I’ve got a constable checking passenger lists for Duke. He’s also trying to find a match from the teeth for the body in the church.’ It occurred to Stratton, as he said this, that if Forbes-James thought Wallace was in Pentonville, he must have engineered a refusal of bail. These people really do have fingers in every pie, he told himself. Just do as you’re told, mate, or you’re fucked.
‘Good,’ said Forbes-James. ‘If you wouldn’t mind finishing your coffee outside, I have to speak to someone before we go.’
As Stratton made for the door, he heard Forbes-James say, ‘Ask Margot to place a call to this number, will you?’ and an intake of breath from Diana. It was such a small sound he thought he might have imagined it, but when Diana appeared her face was dead white, and her voice shook slightly as she spoke to Miss Mentmore, who stared at her in consternation, but made no comment.
Stratton hastily gulped down his coffee and followed her into the kitchen. ‘Was it Ventriss’s number?’ he asked. Diana nodded without looking at him, then grabbed an already dry wine glass, and started buffing it vigorously with a tea towel. They stood tense and silent, side by side, listening. If she had asked, Stratton would have pretended disinterest, and he’d no doubt she’d have done the same, but Forbes-James must have been speaking quietly, because he couldn’t make out any words and nor, judging from her strained expression, could Diana.
When Forbes-James called her name, Diana left the kitchen without looking at Stratton, and a few moments later he heard her leave the flat. He picked up the glass she’d deposited on the draining board. When he held it up to the light, he saw that it was cracked.
At Great Marlborough Street, Machin - presumably alerted by the desk sergeant - bustled through to Stratton and Jones’s office, where he greeted Forbes-James with a level of obsequiousness which, Stratton thought, masked an equally high degree of loathing. He assured Forbes-James that the resources of the station were at his disposal, making it sound as if he could whistle up champagne and dancing girls at the drop of a hat. By the time Machin backed out of the room, Jones - ostensibly minding his own business throughout - was shaking with suppressed laughter and Stratton felt ready to burst.
Machin was replaced a moment later by Arliss, who said, ‘Wallace is ready for you downstairs, Your Lordship,’ and began ushering them through the door in a series of curious salaaming motions which nearly caused him to fall flat on his arse in the corridor. Stratton, who was behind Forbes-James, turned in the doorway and mouthed, ‘Fuck off,’ at Jones, who was, by that time, doubled up, helpless with silent mirth.
SIXTY-SIX
Stratton’s dangerous feeling of hilarity was abruptly and revoltingly quelled by the sight and smell of George Wallace. He wasn’t surprised there’d been complaints - the man was even riper, if that were possible, than before. As Arliss led them through the door, he heard a strangled ‘Good God,’ from Forbes-James.
‘Sorry, sir, should have warned you,’ Stratton murmured. ‘A stranger to soap.’
Wallace glared at them as Forbes-James introduced himself and they sat down on the opposite side of the small table. Stratton lit a cigarette, hoping it might help to mask the smell, and Forbes-James did likewise. ‘Good news, Georgie-boy,’ said Stratton, cheerfully. ‘We’re going to forget about that van-load of cigarettes after all. Provided, of course, that you’re prepared to co-operate.’
Wallace’s expression changed from sullen to suspicious. ‘How?’
‘The last time we spoke,’ said Stratton, ‘you told me that Abie Marks sent you and Johnny Booth to collect a box from Miss Morgan as a favour to one of his friends, but that you didn’t know the friend’s name.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you talked to Mr Vincent - knocking him about a good bit in the process - but you didn’t get the box.’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘However,’ Stratton continued, ‘According to Booth, the pair of you had visited the flat before, and on that occasion you pushed Miss Morgan out of the window.’
Wallace looked from Stratton to Forbes-James and back again. ‘He’s lying.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Scared him, didn’t you? Threatened him. Knocked him about.’
‘George.’ Stratton shook his head reproachfully. ‘I’m sorry you have such a low opinion of us. As a matter of fact, he told us of his own free will. He said that Miss Morgan attacked you, and you acted in self-defence.’