CHAPTER 1

The Anderson shelter had guarded his life for another night, but it felt like a grave. Only the thin sheet of corrugated iron at his side separated him from the cold earth in which he was lying. He drifted in and out of a restless, shallow dream. Now he was in France again, in a dug-out lined with sodden planks of wood, waiting for the day’s shelling to begin. Then the picture shifted, and he was twelve years old, a Boy Scout stirring in a canvas tent as a chorus of birds heralded the start of day. Their song began to fill his ears, with one note soaring louder than all. It wailed on and on, and his body jolted. He was awake.

His eyes opened, and he was back in the present. It was Friday morning. He wasn’t a Boy Scout and he wasn’t a soldier, and the dawn chorus was the monochrome blast of the all-clear siren.

Detective Inspector John Jago was chilly despite being fully clothed, and his joints were stiff. He tugged the worn blanket up under his chin and shifted his aching body carefully on what passed for a bed in this cramped metal box as his mind cleared.

What a way to live, he thought. He’d spent twenty-five shillings – not to mention elevenpence postage – on Selfridges’ promise of a purpose-made “shelter bed”, but that decision was beginning to feel like a triumph of hope over experience. The wooden frame and webbing (“comfortable even without a mattress”) were sturdy enough, but the thing was only five foot nine long and a miserly twenty inches wide. The simple act of turning over was now a delicate manoeuvre that risked pitching himself onto the damp floor, bedding and all. Tonight he would fetch his old eiderdown from the house and lay that on top. At least being warm might help, although the air raids of late had pretty much put paid to any chance of a decent night’s sleep.

A lady in the newspaper, well-meaning no doubt, had advised that the best antidote to a sleepless night in a shelter was to undress and go to bed “properly” as soon as the raids were over. All very well if you didn’t have a job to do, he supposed. And as for her other helpful suggestion – having a sleep after lunch – well, that was just another way to make a policeman laugh.

He checked the time on his wrist-watch. Eight minutes past six. Just five minutes or so until the blackout ended, then another half-hour till sunrise, but there was nothing to be gained from staying on this paltry shelf of a bed. He hauled his reluctant body out from under the blanket, tied his shoes, slipped on his coat and clamped his crumpled grey fedora onto his head. One final stretch to get his limbs working and he felt at least half ready to face the world. He unlatched the door he’d cobbled together a year before from salvaged wood – wondering then, as now, why the government had decided to supply the shelters with no means of sealing the entrance – and climbed out.

His house was still there: a good start to the day. At least he should be able to go to work. No signs of fire in the immediate vicinity, but half a mile away the first of the dawn light revealed smoke curling above the rooftops, marking the points where random destruction, and no doubt death, had befallen the unlucky.

He trudged along the few yards of uneven path to the back door of the house. A cup of tea would perk him up if the gas was still working, and if there was power he’d make a bit of toast to keep him going until he could get some proper breakfast in the station canteen – if not, it would be bread and margarine with a scraping of jam again. He opened the door, went in, and closed it behind him. With the blackout curtains still in place it was darker inside the house than it was outside. He searched for the light switch with his fingers and flicked it down, and was pleased to see the bulb that dangled from the ceiling glow into life – he had electricity.

The brown enamel kettle was already full – he tried to remember to fill it every night in case the Luftwaffe hit the water main. He turned the knob on the stove and heard the hiss of gas, followed by a dull pop as his lighted match ignited it. He placed the kettle over the flames and reached for the teapot – and then the phone rang.

With a sigh and another glance at his watch he put the pot down and walked through to the narrow hall. At this time of the morning there was no mystery about who might be calling. He lifted the receiver.

“Jago.”

“Good morning, sir. Tompkins here, at the station. Sorry to disturb you at this time of day, but I’ve just come on duty on early turn and I’ve been asked to call you.”

“Don’t worry, I was already up. And it’s always a pleasure to hear your dulcet tones, Frank.”

“That’s not what my missus calls it.”

“Well, far be it from me to intrude on private grief, Frank. So what is it that needs me to turn out at this ungodly hour?”

“A body, sir.”

“Lots of bodies around these days, Frank. What’s special about this one?”

“Possibility of suspicious circumstances, apparently. That’s why they want you.”

“Where is it?”

“Down in Canning Town, sir. Tinto Road, near the bottom end of Star Lane. On a bomb-site on the right-hand side as you go down the road. They say you can’t miss it.”

“I dare say. Have we got anyone down there?”

“Yes, sir, young Stannard. He’s waiting for you to arrive. He’s got reinforcements, too – one of them War Reserve constables.”

Jago noticed the dismissive tone in which the station sergeant referred to PC Stannard’s recently enrolled companion. That was Frank’s way of signalling his opinion of the government’s solution to the wartime shortage of police officers, he thought, but now was not the time to rise to his bait.

“Very well,” he said. “Get hold of DC Cradock and tell him I’ll pick him up at the station in about twenty minutes. And see if you can get the police surgeon down to the site pretty smartish.”

Detective Inspector Jago put the phone down, returned to the kitchen, and turned the kettle off. A cup of cold water would have to do for now.

His estimate of twenty minutes proved to be optimistic. The Riley started first time, and he was on his way promptly, but the roads were still clogged with fire hoses, and twice he had to find a way round streets that had been cordoned off because of bomb damage.

It was five to seven by the time Jago reached West Ham Lane. He could see the police station ahead of him, its front door screened against blast by a wall of neatly stacked sandbags and the windows to the side of the entrance protected by horizontal wooden slats. On the pavement in front of the station stood Detective Constable Cradock, awaiting his arrival.

Jago pulled up beside him. The young man looked as though he’d dressed quickly, and his hair was dishevelled. He eased himself carefully into the passenger seat with a quick “Morning, guv’nor”, and Jago nodded a wordless greeting to him in return. Cradock looked as bleary-eyed as Jago felt.

“You getting enough sleep with these air raids every night, Peter?”

“Not too bad, sir. They wake me up, of course, but I try to get back to sleep when the noise stops. How about you, sir?”

“I seem to have lost the knack. Every time I think I’m going to doze off again Hitler drops another bomb just to spite me, and the anti-aircraft guns make so much noise I wonder whether he’s slipping them a fiver just to keep me awake. Last night I don’t think I got to sleep until it was nearly time to wake up. I must be getting old.”

Cradock raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if he’d just realized something important.

“It could be night starvation, sir. Maybe you should try a cup of Horlicks at bedtime.”

“Tommy rot,” said Jago. “I haven’t quite reached that stage, thank you very much. It’s morning starvation I’m suffering from – I didn’t even have time for a piece of toast before I came out. And in any case, if I need anything to drink before I go to bed, I’ll stick to a tot of whisky. Now, if I can stay awake long enough we’re going to Canning Town to see a man about a body.”

Jago slid his left foot onto the gear change pedal, then with a glance over his right shoulder and a light touch on the accelerator he eased the car back into the sparse early morning traffic.