Jenny looked resigned when Stratton announced that he had to take the bus into London the following day, but, having secured several promises that he would be back in good time for lunch at Donald and Doris’s, she kissed him and waved him off. The address Mrs Cope had given him for Joe’s sister turned out to be a flat in the Peabody Buildings on Clerkenwell Road. Looking round the courtyard at the glazed brick entrances and rows of wash houses, Stratton wondered if Beryl Vincent had had the tenancy for long, and whether she was much older than Joe and would be over-protective of him. He checked the number – 12 – and found the right staircase. The concrete steps that smelled strongly of carbolic, and the two clean rag mats and row of potted geraniums at the top announced that Beryl, who, in Stratton’s mind, had acquired the violent irascibility of a harridan, was houseproud.
He adjusted his hat, squared his shoulders, and knocked. After a bit of scuffling and soft murmuring, the door opened enough to show the red, curly head and saucy eyes of a pretty woman in her mid-twenties. ‘Miss Vincent?’
The curls bobbed as she looked him up and down. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Detective Inspector Stratton, West End Central. Are you Miss Beryl Vincent?’
‘Yes.’ The girl’s whole face, including her delightfully pert nose, crinkled in a frown. ‘Is it Joe you want?’
‘Yes, Miss Vincent. May I come in for a moment?’
‘Of course. I’ll go and wake him.’ Beryl opened the door wider, revealing herself to be dressed in slacks and a sweater, and admitted him to a small room furnished with two easy chairs, a gas fire, a
table heaped with slippery-looking fabric, a dressmaker’s dummy and a sewing machine. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ he said.
‘Oh, no. As a matter of fact, I was just about to make some tea,’ said Beryl. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘Please,’ said Stratton.
She gestured towards a door behind her and said, in a lowered voice, ‘Joe’s in there. You won’t be … He’s quite upset about what happened, and we didn’t expect … Well, what with the inquest and everything … I mean, I don’t know what it is you want, but he’s not very …’
Seeing her floundering – even if she knew about Joe, she was hardly going to say anything along the lines of, he’s a pansy so he’s got good reason not to trust the police – Stratton said carefully, ‘I know that your brother was very … attached … to Miss Morgan. I just need to ask a few more questions, I shan’t keep him long.’
Beryl smiled just long enough for Stratton to catch a glimpse of pretty, if rather squirrelly, teeth, invited him to sit down, and withdrew to Joe’s bedroom. Listening to voices from within, he was sure that Joe had been awake before he arrived, and was now in a state of panic.
A shrill whistle brought Beryl racing from the bedroom – ‘Joe’s just getting dressed, tea ready in two shakes,’ – before she disappeared into what had to be a very tiny kitchen and re-appeared with a tray, which she placed on the only clear corner of the table. ‘Have to be careful,’ she said, ‘if I spill anything on this lot I’ll never hear the last of it.’
‘Are you a dressmaker?’
Beryl nodded. ‘I work at Madame Sauvin’s in Bond Street, but we’ve been so busy recently. You wouldn’t think people would want evening dresses, would you, with things the way they are. Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
Accepting the cup of tea, Stratton asked, ‘Did you know Mabel Morgan, Miss Vincent?’
‘Oh, yes. Not like Joe did, of course, but we got on ever so well. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. Look …’ Beryl leant over the back of the unoccupied armchair and pulled some complicated-looking pale pink knitting, strung on three needles, from behind the cushion. ‘Bed socks. I was making them because she used to complain about her feet getting cold in the winter. I was sat here
last night, right where you are now, listening to the wireless, and I must have been knitting away for ten minutes before I remembered … It wasn’t right, her dying like that. I don’t know what to do with this, now,’ she added forlornly.
‘What about someone in your family?’
‘There’s nobody. Mum died when we were small, and Aunt Edna – that’s who brought us up – she passed away a couple of years ago.’
‘What about your father?’ asked Stratton, adding hastily, ‘Not that you could give them to a man, of course.’
‘He was killed in the last war. We didn’t really know him – at least, Joe didn’t, because he’s younger than me. It’s just the two of us now. You won’t be too hard on Joe, will you?’
‘I promise.’ Stratton smiled. ‘I haven’t been hard on you, have I?’
‘No, but …’ Beryl looked confused again, and Stratton changed the subject by asking, ‘What did you mean when you said Miss Morgan’s death wasn’t right?’
‘Well, just that, really. It was rotten. Falling on those railings … I don’t care what they said at that inquest, I don’t believe it was suicide for a minute, and neither does Joe.’
‘Why not?’
‘She wasn’t that sort.’
‘What sort was she?’
‘Brave. A fighter. I don’t mean she went round clobbering people, although she certainly used to speak her mind. But she was game, never felt sorry for herself. And you’d have to, wouldn’t you, to commit suicide?’
‘What was it, then?’ asked Stratton.
‘An accident! She leant out too far, that’s all. It could have happened to anyone. And,’ she concluded triumphantly, ‘Joe told me she hadn’t got her teeth in, and I never saw her without them, never.’
‘Was there anything troubling her?’
‘Not that I know of. She’d have told Joe, wouldn’t she?’
‘Would she?’
‘Course she would. They were as close as that.’ She crossed the first and second fingers of her left hand and lifted it up in demonstration. ‘Anyway,’ she said abruptly, ‘I’d better go and see what he’s up to. Stuff this under your seat, will you? I don’t want him
to see it.’ She dropped the jumble of knitting into his lap and left the room.
Stratton just had time to raise one leg and shove the wool under the cushion before she returned, pulling her brother along behind her. Stratton’s first impression was that Joe was terrified – the man was actually shaking. He watched as Beryl pushed him into the armchair opposite his own, performed introductions, and handed over a cup of tea with instructions to drink it before it got cold. Despite the fear, the black eye and the bruised face, Stratton could see that, while his sister was pretty, Joe Vincent was actually (if this could be said of a man) beautiful. His head, with glossy hair, dark eyes, smooth skin, unsuitably generous mouth and perfect profile, reminded Stratton of the classical statues of athletes and young noblemen he’d seen on visits to the British Museum.
Beryl interrupted his reverie. ‘I’ll leave you to it, shall I?’
‘Thank you,’ said Stratton, and they both watched in silence as she gathered up various pieces of sewing equipment and retreated into what was, presumably, her bedroom. Alone with Joe, Stratton continued to stare at him. He stared back with an expression that suggested Stratton was a wild animal about to attack at any moment, and eventually blurted out, ‘What is it you want? I’ve told you people everything I know. I just want to be left alone.’
‘I know you do, but there are one or two things I want to clear up.’ Stratton paused. ‘I understand you were in a bit of bother the other night.’
Joe fingered the bruise round his eye. ‘It was just a misunderstanding … Nothing at all, really.’
‘It doesn’t look like nothing.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Doesn’t look fine, either. What happened?’
‘Chap I know,’ Joe directed his comments to his teacup. ‘Lent me some money, didn’t he?’
‘And?’
‘Put it on a dog, didn’t I?’ Joe’s voice was sullen.
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was it called?’
‘Bonny Beryl.’
‘Beryl?’
‘Yes, like my sister. That’s why I put it on. I lost it, so I couldn’t pay him, and he—’
‘Which track?’
‘White City.’
‘When were you there?’
‘Last … Monday.’ Joe looked at Stratton for the first time since the start of the exchange, something like triumph in his face.
‘Why weren’t you at work?’
‘Afternoon off.’
‘So you were at the dog track at White City on Monday afternoon? ’
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Sure about that, are you?’
‘Yes!’
‘I’m not.’
Joe’s face turned a mottled pink. ‘You calling me a liar?’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, gently. ‘But you’re not a very good one. You see, I happen to know that dog-racing’s been restricted to one afternoon a week, and the London meetings take place on Saturdays.’ He wasn’t absolutely positive about the day, but that didn’t matter because he was willing to bet that Joe had never been to a dog track in his life, and the expression on the man’s face confirmed that he was right. ‘Now, why don’t you start all over again, and tell me the truth?’
Joe fidgeted with his cup for a while, then said, ‘It was an argument, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
‘Money. Like I told you.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Nothing to tell. I owed this chap some money, and I couldn’t pay, so he cut up rough and … Well, you can see.’
‘How much money?’
‘Five quid.’
‘He did that for five quid?’
‘Well …’ Joe hesitated. ‘It might have been a bit more.’
‘Really?’ Stratton put his teacup down on the hearth. ‘How much more?’
‘About ten quid.’
‘Ten quid more than five quid, or just ten quid?’
‘Just ten.’
‘I see. And what was this chap’s name?’
‘He’s just a friend.’
Stratton raised his eyebrows. ‘A friend?’
‘Yes.’ Joe looked defiant. ‘Someone I know.’
‘And what does someone look like?’
‘Just … you know … ordinary.’
‘So someone ordinary, who may or may not be your friend – although by the look of you, I’d say he was more of an enemy – lent you a sum of money which might have been five pounds or ten pounds, and then thumped you because you couldn’t pay it back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he charging interest?’
‘Interest?’
‘Money on top of the loan. I believe it’s about three per cent, but,’ Stratton added, disingenuously, ‘I should think a moneylender would ask for a bit more, wouldn’t he?’
‘He did ask for a few bob, yes.’
‘A few bob? that would be, what, three bob? Four?’
‘Five.’
‘So your friend asked you to pay interest, did he? How long did you want to borrow the money for?’
‘A week.’
‘And what did you offer him?’
Joe turned pale. ‘I don’t understand,’ he muttered.
‘What security for the loan?’
‘Oh. Nothing.’
‘So, this friend who charges interest doesn’t want security. Supposing you’d scarpered?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘You said five bob, so … let’s see … five bob on a tenner would be two and a half per cent, wouldn’t it? Bit on the low side, I’d have thought. Not really worth his while. Perhaps,’ said Stratton, thoughtfully, ‘your friend ought to take a course in economics.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Joe, sulkily.
‘Evidently. Thought it was worth damaging his knuckles, though, didn’t he?’
Joe shrugged.
‘Where did you meet this man?’
‘At the Wheatsheaf.’
‘The Wheatsheaf in Rathbone Place?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not your local. Too far away.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Joe. ‘But I go in there sometimes … Or I used to …’ Joe stopped, his face whiter, if possible, than before.
‘Used to …?’
‘Mabel. Miss Morgan. It was her favourite pub. She liked the people in there – artists and all that. I used to pick her up from there on my way home from work.’
‘Did Miss Morgan introduce you to the man who lent you the money?’
‘She didn’t know him.’
‘So who did?’
‘No-one. I mean, we just got talking, and …’
‘When was this?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘What time? The Tivoli doesn’t close until late. You’d have a job getting there before last orders.’
‘I left early.’
‘How early?’
‘Half an hour or so.’
‘So you met this man for, what, ten minutes, a few weeks ago, and he was prepared to lend you the money without any security?’
‘I saw him again after that. He knew where I lived.’
‘Did he visit you?’
‘A few times.’
‘Was Miss Morgan there?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘But she might have been?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So she knew who he was?’
‘No! I told you, she didn’t know him. I must have given him my address, I can’t remember.’
‘So he never came to your flat?’
Joe lowered his head in defeat. ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.
‘You’ve just told me he did, and now you’re saying you don’t know. Did he come to your flat or didn’t he?’
‘No.’ Joe’s voice was a whisper.
‘This isn’t getting us very far,’ said Stratton. ‘Let’s say third time lucky, shall we? Now then,’ he leant forward, ‘this time, no dogs, no loans, and no strange men in pubs – or anywhere else, for that matter – unless, of course, they actually exist. And I’m guessing that this,’ – he gestured at Joe’s face, which had gone rigid – ‘wasn’t the result of a lovers’ tiff.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Oh, I think you do.’ Stratton didn’t enjoy threatening people, and, after all, the poor sod couldn’t help what he was any more than he, Stratton, could help fancying women, but he was determined to get at the truth. He continued to stare at Joe, who was now looking intently at the unlit gas fire, as if searching for inspiration.
‘You won’t believe it,’ he said, finally.
Stratton shifted back slightly, feeling the tension in the room break, knowing that Joe was close to telling the truth. ‘Try me,’ he said, mildly.
‘I don’t know why they came.’
Stratton remembered the conversation with Arliss. ‘They?’
‘There was two of them. Waiting for me when I got home.’
‘When was this?’
‘Monday. About half-past eleven.’
‘At night?’
Joe nodded.
‘So you’d been at the cinema in the morning, had the afternoon off, and gone back to work in the evening?’
Joe flushed and shook his head.
‘So Monday isn’t your afternoon off?’
‘No. I don’t have one.’
‘Right.’ Stratton reached into his pocket for his notebook. ‘So, there were two of them, then?’
Joe nodded. ‘At my flat.’
‘How did they get in?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Joe, miserably. ‘I suppose Mrs Cope – that’s my landlady – must have let them in.’ Stratton scribbled a reminder to himself to ask Mrs Cope about this, although, given what he knew of the woman, he felt that she was unlikely, in view of the circumstances, to let such an event pass without remarking on it to all and sundry. ‘Could anyone else have let them in?’
‘There’s two other lodgers, Mr Stockley and Mr Rogers.’ Stratton noted the names. ‘I suppose it might have been one of them, if Mrs Cope wasn’t there. She goes out some evenings to see her daughter.’
‘And Mr Cope?’
‘She’s a widow.’
‘Do you know how they got into your flat?’
‘They must have picked the lock. I shouldn’t think it’s that difficult … I mean, if you know what you’re doing.’
‘Have you any idea how long they’d been there?’
‘Not really. I know they’d smoked a couple of cigarettes, because I saw them in the ashtray when I was clearing up afterwards.’
‘Clearing up?’
‘They’d made a real mess of the place. All her things …’ Joe put his face in his hands. ‘It was horrible.’
‘All Miss Morgan’s things?’
‘Yes. Her clothes, and her pictures … newspapers with stuff from when she was in films, all over the floor. The mirror was broken, glass everywhere, and they’d pulled the mattress off the bed.’
‘What about your things?’
‘They’d gone through those, too, but … It was seeing her things like that, I couldn’t …’ Joe gulped and began to cry. ‘I couldn’t bear it …’
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton, softly. ‘Here,’ he fished in his pocket again, and pulled out his cigarettes. ‘Have one of these.’ Joe took one, cautiously, as if touching the packet might cause an explosion. ‘I think,’ Stratton leant across to give him a light, ‘we might ask your sister if she’d be kind enough to freshen the pot, don’t you? And then you can tell me the rest.’ He got up and knocked on Beryl’s door.
‘Hello?’
Stratton stuck his head round. Beryl was sitting on her bed, sewing something intricate that looked as if it might be a neckline. ‘Would you mind boiling a spot more water? I think Joe could do with another cup. A handkerchief might not go amiss, either.’
Beryl rose, skewering the material with a final jab of her needle. ‘What have you been saying to him?’ Without waiting for a reply, she barged straight past Stratton and, after taking one look at Joe, wheeled round and said, fiercely, ‘You promised.’
Joe raised his head and regarded her through sodden eyes. ‘It’s all right, Beryl,’ he said, softly.
Beryl continued to glare at Stratton. ‘All right,’ she said finally. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to Joe before picking up the teapot and retreating to the kitchen. Stratton waited in silence while Joe mopped his face and blew his nose, and when more tea was brought and poured and Beryl had returned to her work, he said, ‘Now then, these men. What do you think they were looking for?’
‘I don’t know, but that’s what they said when they saw me – “You’ve got something we want.” I didn’t know what they were talking about, and I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. They just kept on and on hitting me … I thought they were going to kill me.’
‘And you can’t think of anything it might be?’
Joe shook his head. ‘I haven’t got anything.’
‘What about Miss Morgan? You said they went through her things, too.’
‘Yes, but that was just clothes and trinkets and stuff. I told you.’
‘Nothing hidden, nothing she wanted to keep secret?’
‘No. She used to get a bit funny about people coming into the house, but …’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, she’d look out of the window a lot. Seeing who was in the street. If she had visitors, she’d throw her keys down, but I don’t think that was very often … I mean, I was at the cinema most of the time, so … She didn’t like the blackout much, but most people don’t, do they?’
‘Do you think she was frightened about something?’
‘I wouldn’t say frightened, just that she liked to know what was happening. I think it was more … well, she didn’t have a lot of money, and she used to get a bit lonely, up there on her own.’
‘But she went to the Wheatsheaf in the evenings?’
‘Yes. She was quite well known there. If somebody bought her a drink, then she’d talk to them. She used to like that.’
‘And she never went anywhere else?’
‘I don’t think so. At least, she was always at the Wheatsheaf when I came to fetch her, and when it started getting dark early, in
the winter, I used to nip out of work and take her down there at opening time.’
‘I see. So these two men said you had something they wanted, and you said you hadn’t, and they hit you, and then what? Did they say anything else?’
‘Not really. Just kept on about how they knew I’d got whatever it was.’
‘Do you know how they got into the house?’
‘No. We all have our own keys, so I suppose someone must have let them in.’
‘Did they threaten you before they left?’
‘Not … Well, they said something about how they knew I wouldn’t go to the police. And I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t met that copper.’
‘Don’t worry, Joe. They don’t know where you are, do they?’
‘Not here, but they know where I work, and—’
‘Did they say that?’
‘No, but they can ask around, can’t they?’
‘I might be able to do something about that,’ said Stratton, ‘if you tell me a bit more about them.’ Joe looked as if he doubted this, but didn’t say anything. ‘Did you find anything missing after they’d gone?’
‘Not directly. I went out afterwards, when they’d gone. I didn’t want to stay there, I thought they might come back … I didn’t really know what I was doing. I had the idea I’d come over here, but I was pretty groggy.’
‘That was when you met PC Arliss, was it?’
‘Yes. I don’t honestly remember much about it.’
‘He said you were in a bad way,’ said Stratton. ‘What happened after that?’
‘After I left the station, you mean?’
Stratton nodded.
‘Then I came here.’
‘So when did you go back to your flat?’
‘Tuesday. After work.’
‘They must have been a bit surprised at work when they saw your appearance.’
‘The manager wasn’t very happy, but I’m not on show to the public, so …’ Joe shrugged. ‘I was worried about going to the flat
– I didn’t really think they’d be there, but all the same … I just tidied up a bit, and packed a few things, and then I came here.’
‘So, was anything missing?’
‘There was one thing – it seemed a bit odd, and at first I thought maybe I’d just missed it, you know, it had gone under the bed or something, but I looked everywhere, and I couldn’t find it. A photograph of Mabel when she was a star. She had it in a frame, on the mantelpiece.’
‘Perhaps they were film fans. But that wasn’t what they came for, was it?’
‘No. I don’t know what they wanted. I swear it.’
‘I believe you,’ said Stratton. ‘Now then, suppose you tell me what this pair looked like?’
‘One of them was tall, with a big scar on his face, here,’ he ran one finger down his right cheek, ‘He was wearing a hat, so I couldn’t see his hair, but he was quite dark, and big. Bulky. He had a dark blue suit, and a dark tie, black shoes, gloves – both of them had gloves.’
‘How old would you say he was?’
‘About thirty. The other one was younger – more like a boy. Seventeen or eighteen, maybe. He was wearing a suit, too, similar sort of colour … brown hair, quite a pale face with freckles. I saw them when he was bending over me.’
‘What did they sound like?’
‘Ordinary. Londoners. Bit Cockney – like me, I suppose. They didn’t shout or anything, just hit me. That was mainly the big one. The other one was watching.’
‘The big one you told me about, with the scar. What did he smell like?’
‘Well …’ Joe hesitated. ‘Not very good.’
‘Needed a spot of Lifebuoy soap, did he?’
Joe’s face broke into a grin. ‘You can say that again. Why, do you know him?’
‘Yes.’ Stratton returned his notebook to his pocket. ‘I do.’