Stratton took a long swallow of PC Cudlipp’s filthy tea, and surveyed the mess on his desk. It had been a terrible day. He and Jenny had been woken by raiders at three, stumbled out to the Anderson, and lain awake listening to the bombs until around five, when he’d dozed off only to be woken by the warble of the ‘Raiders Passed’ signal at six. He’d given up after that, and, still in his dressing gown and pyjamas, trudged across to the garden shed and read some more of Mabel Morgan’s letters.
By the time he’d reached the police station he felt exhausted, and discovering that the girl who’d been assaulted at the nightclub was fifteen, not eighteen, and on the run from an approved school, hadn’t improved matters. The club owner’s claims of innocence were risible, and his attempts at bribery had been insultingly clumsy – in comparison, Stratton thought, gangsters like Abie Marks were positively subtle.
After an hour and a half spent sifting papers and getting nowhere, Stratton glanced at his watch, saw that it was almost six o’clock, and, remembering that he wanted to call on Beryl Vincent on the way home, hurried from the station.
Beryl, however, wasn’t at her flat in Clerkenwell Road. Stratton debated putting a note through her letterbox, but decided against it. The visit wasn’t an official one, and he didn’t want her trying to contact him at Savile Row.
Jenny greeted him at the door with a serious face and, assuming it was because he was late, he hastened to apologise, but she shook her head abstractedly and disappeared back to the kitchen.
He knew better than to question Jenny while they were eating – she’d tell him when she was ready – so they talked about her new job at the Rest Centre, helping families made homeless by the
bombing, and about the possibility of buying some wax ear-plugs to deaden the noise of the raids. When Jenny had cleared the plates and made the tea, Stratton asked ‘What’s the matter, love?’
Jenny fiddled with the knitted tea-cosy for a moment, then said, simply, ‘Johnny.’
‘Ah.’ At least it wasn’t the children.
‘He’s in real trouble, Ted. He’s been dismissed from the garage for fiddling petrol coupons. Weeks ago. Mr Hartree told me.’
‘Did he now?’ Stratton frowned. Mr Hartree, who owned the garage, was wire-thin, lecherous as a monkey, and about as shameless.
‘Don’t look like that, Ted. He wasn’t being … you know … silly.’ A slight redness appeared in Jenny’s cheeks as she said this. ‘He’s worried about the boy, that’s all. Says he’s in with a bad crowd. I don’t think Lilian and Reg have any idea.’
‘They must know he’s been sacked.’
Jenny shook her head. ‘Lilian would have told me. You’ve got to talk to him, Ted.’
‘That’s Reg’s job.’
Jenny rolled her eyes. ‘Fat lot of good he’ll do.’
‘I probably won’t do much better, love, but I suppose I could have a go,’ said Stratton resignedly, adding, ‘when I get the chance.’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t say anything in front of Reg. Get him on his own.’
‘I’m not daft, you know.’
Stratton finished his tea and walked round to Donald and Doris’s to ask about borrowing a projector. Donald thought a bit, then said he knew someone who knew someone but that it might take a few days, and with that, Stratton had to be content. He refused the offer of a cup of tea and returned home, where he sat down in his favourite armchair and slept. The sirens woke him at half-past nine, and he went out with Jenny to the Anderson. Making his large frame as comfortable as he could on one of the narrow, iron-hard mattresses, he went back to sleep without bothering to remove any of his clothes.
The following morning, gas leaks and burst water mains, casualties of the previous night’s bombing, caused most of the buses from north-east London to be diverted miles away from their usual
routes. When Stratton asked the ticket collector where they were going, the man replied, cheerfully, ‘No idea, guv.’
He decided it would be quicker to walk. Clouds of acrid smoke drifting down Regent Street alerted him to a possible catastrophe, and, hurrying round the corner of Vigo Street, out of breath and three-quarters of an hour late, he found a scene of devastation. West End Central police station was more or less gutted: the ferroconcrete structure was still standing, but everything else – fittings, partitions, and furniture – had been reduced to piles of smouldering wreckage. The ceiling of the Communications Room hung in festoons over sodden mounds of plaster and brick dust, in the midst of which Arliss and Ballard, looking dishevelled with field telephones on their laps, were trying to deal with urgent messages. Several other PCs were combing through the remains of the CID office for exhibits, watched by a large crowd who were chatting, pointing, and, in most cases, scarcely bothering to conceal their glee. A crew of demolition men who were supposed to be clearing the rubble sat on the ground, engrossed in the charred remains of police files and pointing out the more interesting and confidential details to a group of auxiliary firemen.
Stratton caught sight of Cudlipp, who was holding a dented kettle and poking disconsolately through the mess, and went over to join him. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Parachute mine, Sir. Right on the steps.’
‘Any casualties?’
‘No-one killed, Sir. Policewoman Harris got a broken leg – they’ve taken her to hospital – and DCI Lamb got a nasty knock on the head from a sheet of plywood. Just as well those windows had already gone, or he’d have been decapitated. He’s gone to hospital, too. I shouldn’t think we’ll be seeing him any time soon.
‘Oh, dear.’ Stratton, feeling acutely guilty, tried to sound sorrier about this than he actually was. All the same, it sounded as if Lamb would be out of his hair for quite a while, and that had to be a good thing. ‘Emergency procedures working all right?’ he asked.
‘Such as they are, sir. They’re sending us to Great Marlborough Street. I don’t know when we’ll be back to normal,’ he added glumly. Looking around, Stratton seriously doubted if anything would ever be back to normal, but decided to say nothing.
An Indian waiter from Veeraswamy’s appeared at Stratton’s elbow. ‘Excuse me, sir. Very bad business all together. Boss saying using kitchen if wishing, sir. Making tea for men, sir.’
‘That’s very kind of him,’ said Stratton. ‘Thank you.’ Turning to Cudlipp, who was looking mutinous, he said, ‘You heard. Go with this gentlemen and make some tea.’
But sir …’
‘But nothing,’ said Stratton, firmly. ‘In the absence of DCI Lamb’ – he looked round quickly to make sure that no other senior officers were present – ‘I’m in charge of this station, or what’s left of it, and I’m giving you an order.’
Cudlipp looked at him resentfully and started muttering something about darkies and dirty habits. ‘For God’s sake,’ said Stratton, exasperated, ‘they’re offering to help. Off you go.’
Making a mental note to thank the restaurant manager in person for the use of his kitchen, Stratton started towards the demolition squad, intending to confiscate the files, but Ballard intercepted him, waving his notebook. ‘Urgent call, sir. Church on Eastcastle Street caught a packet last night, and they’ve found a body.’
‘That’s hardly surprising,’ said Stratton, mildly.
‘Not a bomb casualty, sir. This one was buried.’
‘They usually are.’
‘Not in the normal way, sir. The body’s not supposed to be there and the warden says it looks funny.’
‘Funny?’
‘He says the head’s been smashed in, sir.’
‘I see. What’s the name of the church?’
‘Our Lady and St. Peter, sir. Left-footers.’ Seeing Stratton’s puzzled expression, he added, ‘Papists, sir.’
‘Oh. Yes. Well, I suppose it would be, with a name like that.’
Stratton could picture the church – he’d walked past it hundreds of times, but never been inside. It was Victorian, gloomy and forbidding. He thought that it might be made of multi-coloured brick, but years of London smog had given it such a thick coating of soot that he couldn’t be certain about this. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that you’ve unearthed the Murder Bag?’
“Fraid not, sir.’
‘Never mind. You might let them know I’m on my way – if you can get through, that is – and see if you can get hold of the
photographer and send him over. Send a messenger if you can’t do it by telephone, and tell Bainbridge and Ricketts to stop those men reading the files. Then get this place cordoned off before it turns into a complete circus. Have we heard anything from HQ?’
‘No, sir.’
It wasn’t entirely surprising, Stratton reflected as he walked up Regent Street. Scotland Yard probably had troubles of their own. In any case, they’d be better off without a lot of top brass hanging about and getting in the way.
The last time Stratton had been inside a church was for Jenny’s mother’s funeral. He didn’t remember very much about the service, except that there’d been a storm. They’d trooped outside and gathered round the grave in the sort of lashing rain against which umbrellas were useless while the vicar gabbled through ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live …’ like a horse-racing commentator.
There was something terrible about destroying a place of worship, he thought, as he stared at the giant mounds of bricks, pillars and smashed stained glass that had been the Church of Our Lady and St. Peter. With the awkward reverence of the non-churchgoer, he negotiated his way past a jumble of broken pews, brass fittings and shattered pictures of lachrymose saints martyred for a second time, towards the back of what was left of the building. An ARP warden, accompanied by an elderly priest, his cassock incorrectly buttoned over his pyjamas and an oversize tin hat jammed firmly on his head, came to greet him. He put out a hand. ‘DI Stratton, West End Central.’
‘George Crosbie,’ said the warden. ‘And this is Father Lampton.’ The priest, who was staring down at his slippered feet, seemed disinclined either to speak or shake hands. After a moment, he wandered away, bending down every so often to peer into the rubble. The warden watched him go, then turned to Stratton.
‘Not Catholic are you, Inspector?’
Stratton shook his head.
‘He’s fretting about his reliquary.’
‘His what?’
‘The box where they keep the holy bits and pieces. They’ve got the foreskin of St. Giles or the left tit of St. Gertrude or something, and he’s determined to find it. I’ve told him not to go poking about
– for all we know, there could be a time bomb in this lot – but he won’t listen.’
‘Is there a St. Gertrude?’ asked Stratton.
‘Buggered if I know. Honestly, you’d think he’d have better things to worry about, wouldn’t you?’ Not waiting for an answer, Crosbie continued, ‘Anyway, this body. If you’d care to follow me, Inspector, I’ll show you.’
With a last glance at the forlorn figure of Father Lampton, who was now blowing dust off a piece of splintered board, Stratton accompanied the warden, taking as much care as he could not to step on anything that looked as if it might be sacred. Passing the stone font, which, though chipped and gouged, was still standing, he noticed, sticking out of the pile of debris that filled the receptacle, another piece of board like a wafer on top of an ice cream. Pulling it out, he read the words ‘—st falls’ and wondered, briefly, what they meant.
The warden led him down some rickety stairs to what must have been the crypt, which was now partially open to the sky. Nine or ten tombs, their stone tops smashed in and their wrought iron railings scattered about like spillikins, stood along the right side of the room. The resurrection of the body, thought Stratton. He didn’t know what the last trump would sound like, but the angels who blew it would certainly need a hell of a lot of puff if they wanted to compete with a fleet of Dorniers. He followed the warden to the end of the row of tombs, where a large hole in the floor, made by falling masonry, had revealed a makeshift earth grave beneath the stone slabs. Inside, Stratton could see a tangle of dusty limbs that culminated in a dented buff-coloured ball that looked, at first glance, as if it belonged on top of a newel post. Bending down, he saw that the features – the head was in profile – had been smashed flat.
‘That wasn’t caused by the bombing,’ said Crosbie. ‘He was like that when we found him.’
‘He?’
‘The—’ Crosbie checked himself. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. Figure of speech. It’s not likely to be a woman, is it?’
‘No idea,’ said Stratton. ‘Have you moved anything?’
‘No. Thought we ought to leave it.’
Stratton squatted down and picked up a handful of the soil,
noting the yellowish deposits. It would have to be checked, but he’d bet it was lime, and builder’s lime at that. Builder’s lime would delay putrefaction, whereas quicklime would destroy the corpse. He wondered if whoever buried the dead person knew this. He looked up at the warden, who was staring impassively at the body. ‘Do you know if there’s been any building work done here recently?’ he asked.
‘Couldn’t say.’ Crosbie shook his head. ‘I could ask Father Lampton, if you like, but I’ve not been able to get much sense out of him so far.’
‘I’ll ask him later. Right now, we need the pathologist, then the body can be moved. Where’s the nearest telephone?’
‘There’s one in the pub down the road, but I don’t know if it’s working.’
‘In that case, we’d better send someone round.’
‘No-one here. They’re all in Berners Street. Whole row came down – hell of a mess.’
‘In that case, can you take a message to the Middlesex?’
Stratton accompanied Crosbie to the foot of the steps, then found a place to sit that was as far away from the body as possible without being directly underneath any dodgy looking bits of wall. He hoped that someone other than Dr Byrne was on duty, and then stared up at what was left of the vaulted ceiling, wondering if this part of the building was older than the rest. All he knew about church architecture was that there were a lot of strange bits and pieces, like squinches and quoins, which did not, as far as he knew, form part of any other type of building. He remembered the piece of wood in the font: ‘—st falls’. Must be the end of ‘Christ falls’. A vague memory came back to him of reading this, once, on the wall of a Catholic church … when? Why had he been there? A funeral, perhaps, or a wedding? The Stations of the Cross, that’s what it was. He lit a cigarette, glad to have pieced it together, but his satisfaction was quickly quashed by the thought that the missing persons files at West End Central had probably been wholly or partly destroyed, which meant that identifying chummy was going to be even more difficult … Not to mention the way people were moving around nowadays because of the war, and it might be a foreigner, in which case … Stratton groaned. As if life wasn’t complicated enough already.
Hearing shuffling noises from above, he put out his cigarette and stood up, brushing dust off his clothes. It wasn’t the pathologist, as he’d hoped, but Father Lampton, who made his way unsteadily down the steps, a tin cup in his hand. Ignoring Stratton’s greeting, the priest began to sprinkle water in the direction of the tombs, muttering incantations under his breath. Stratton caught up with him and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Excuse me.’
The priest shook his head and flicked some of the water in Stratton’s direction. Several drops fell on his sleeve and Stratton, unthinking, brushed them off. The movement caught Father Lampton’s eye, and he looked at Stratton for the first time.
‘What?’ he said in a querulous voice. ‘What is it?’
‘DI Stratton, Father, from West End Central. I’m afraid I need to ask you some questions.’
‘Questions?’ repeated Father Lampton, vaguely. ‘Now? I’m busy.’
‘I know, Father, but it won’t take long. It’s about the body.’ The priest eyed Stratton with distaste. ‘There will be further questions once we have more information, but at the moment I’d like to know if any of your congregation have gone missing – anyone who attends church regularly, but hasn’t been coming recently.’
‘Well,’ said Father Lampton, ‘there are the evacuees, of course, and one or two of the mothers, and the men who’ve been called up … One of my older parishioners died recently, and one poor soul was killed in the bombing, but apart from that, I don’t know of anyone.’
‘I see. Has there been any building work carried out here in the past year? Repairs, and so forth.’
‘Yes.’ Father Lampton nodded. ‘Strengthening the roof.’ Gazing at the ruins around him, he added, sadly, ‘Man proposes …’
‘When was the work carried out?’
‘February or March. Does it have a bearing on the matter?’
‘It might. Do you remember the name of the company who did the work?’
‘McIntosh, McInnes …’ Father Lampton shook his head. ‘No, that’s not right … McIntyre. That was it. McIntyre.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, Father. For the time being.’
The priest gave Stratton a curt nod and shuffled away in the direction of the stairs. Left alone, Stratton sat down again. The man’s reaction was probably due to shock – it was his church after all – and he supposed that dousing the place in holy water was probably as good a response as any.
After half an hour, during which time Stratton smoked two more cigarettes, scribbled ‘McIntyre – Builders’ in his notebook, and hoped that Cudlipp was managing not to give mortal offence to the staff at Veeraswamy’s, the photographer arrived. He was in the process of setting up his equipment when Crosbie returned, accompanied by Dr Byrne. Bollocks, thought Stratton; it would be.
‘Well, where is it?’ said Byrne, as if he’d been the one kept waiting.
‘Over here.’ Stratton led the way past the tombs. Byrne gave the corpse a curt nod – which was more, Stratton thought, than he’d got by way of greeting – then stood back to allow the photographer to finish. ‘Moved anything?’ he asked Stratton.
‘I’m not a complete idiot, you know.’ Byrne gave him a look that suggested he very much doubted this, but didn’t reply.
Stratton sent Crosbie to the station to fetch a reservist to guard the place until such time as the mortuary van could be spared to collect the body, and settled down to watch Byrne at work. The man was efficient, he thought, admiring the neat way he took measurements and made sketches, you had to give him that.
Twenty minutes later, Byrne straightened up, and Stratton felt it was safe to venture a question. ‘How long do you think it’s been here?’
‘A few months …’ The pathologist unrolled his sleeves. ‘Can’t say until I’ve examined it properly. I must say,’ he added, ‘I feel rather like an archaeologist.’ Stratton was surprised to see that the man’s features had arranged themselves into a sort of rictus, and, realising several seconds too late that it was meant to be a smile, responded with a hearty chuckle. ‘Short hair,’ Byrne continued, ‘and men’s clothes, as far as I can tell, but you never know.’ This, judging by the expectant look on his face, was meant as another sally, and Stratton guffawed obligingly. Christ, he thought, any
minute now we’ll be slapping our thighs and clapping each other on the back.
‘He was murdered, was he?’ he asked.
‘Looks like it.’
‘Was it the blow to the head?’
‘Several blows. There’s a depressed fracture to the skull, which can’t have done him much good.’
‘What about the earth? Those yellow deposits – I wondered if they might be lime.’
‘Might explain the lack of insect activity. We’ll have to have them analysed, of course.’ It was clear from Byrne’s tone that he felt he’d unbent quite enough, and Stratton knew better than to press him. ‘Right,’ said the pathologist, stowing the last of his things in his bag, ‘I’ll be off. I’ll let you know when I’ve completed the examination. In normal circumstances, I’d say Friday, but …’
‘Of course,’ said Stratton, hurriedly – the mounting evidence that Byrne was actually human was beginning to unnerve him. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Having instructed the reservist who’d arrived, Stratton returned to the station to find Cudlipp standing on the corner of Vigo Street having a blazing row with one of the cooks from Veeraswamy’s. The man was brandishing a heavy ladle, but Cudlipp, arms akimbo and with a familiar expression of stubbornness on his face, held his ground. ‘You are thinking I know bugger nothing,’ screamed the cook in a fury, ‘but I know bugger all!’ Clearly feeling that this was an unanswerable riposte he turned and stamped back to the restaurant.
Stratton managed to turn his laughter into a cough. He wasn’t going to bother to ascertain the facts – Cudlipp, he thought, was bound to have started it – but Cudlipp, it seemed, was determined to give them to him whether he liked it or not.
‘Tried to pinch my kettle, sir. Thieving wog.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘Here.’ Cudlipp indicated the battered object, which was on the ground behind him. ‘Safe and sound.’
‘Good.’ He shooed Cudlipp back in the direction of what was left of the station and went to have a word with the restaurant’s manager.
When he emerged half an hour later, the first thing he saw was the rotund form of Sub-Divisional Inspector Roper, who’d arrived from Scotland Yard and was being given a tour of the damage by Constable Ballard. Laboriously, Stratton made his way over to them and stood waiting for Roper to finish whatever it was he was saying. Several minutes passed, during which Stratton’s eyes were glued to the thread of saliva that linked Roper’s pipe, which he’d removed from his mouth to wave in the air for emphasis, and his bottom lip. As Roper moved his hand, this glittering connection grew longer and longer until finally, it broke, leaving a shiny residue on his chin. Eventually, Roper stopped talking and turned towards him. ‘Were you looking for me?’
No, thought Stratton, I’m just standing here for a bet. Aloud, he said, ‘Yes, sir. DI Stratton, sir.’
‘Ah, good.’ Roper jammed the pipe back into his mouth and talked round it. ‘Bit of a mess.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any news on DCI Lamb?’
‘None yet, sir,’ said Stratton, hoping this was correct.
‘Well, keep up the good work. Come up with anything on that stabbing yet?’
‘The gang fight? No, sir. It’s difficult to get the witnesses to talk.’ As you damn well know, he added to himself.
‘Well, keep at it. Things are bound to be a bit tricky for a few days, but we’ll muddle through it somehow. Been up to Eastcastle Street, have you? The church?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Feeling that something more was called for, Stratton added, ‘The body’s been there for a while, sir. We’ll know more when Dr Byrne’s had a look at it.’
‘Good. The thing is to keep going. You’ll be at Great Marlborough Street in a day or two.’
‘So I understand, sir.’
‘It’s bound to be rather hugger-mugger at first, but I’m sure you’ll bed down pretty quickly.’ After several more platitudes of this type, accompanied by a spot of pipe-jabbing, Roper departed.
After a suitable pause, Ballard asked, ‘How did it go at the church, sir?’
‘Dr Byrne’s turned into a comedian.’
‘Must be that Blitz spirit we’ve heard so much about,’ said Ballard, sardonically.
Stratton grinned. ‘Anything come in while I’ve been away?’
‘A couple of things, Sir. If you’ll follow me …’
After sorting out a few minor matters, Stratton went to find Constable Ricketts, who was standing guard over several tatty heaps of police files. ‘What’s left of Missing Persons?’
‘Here they are, Sir.’ Ricketts gestured at a small stack of papers, which were variously burnt, saturated, or ripped.
‘Is this it?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir. I was about to take them round to Great Marlborough Street. SDI Roper told us to use the hand ambulance, sir.’ As if on cue, Arliss appeared from behind a mound of rubble, pushing a glorified wheelbarrow in front of him.
‘Where did you find that?’
‘It was stored in the basement, sir.’
‘Good grief,’ said Stratton. ‘Well, you’d better get on with it, then,’ he added, gloomily. ‘Just try and put the Missing Persons stuff somewhere where I can find it, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Stratton watched as Ricketts trundled off, Arliss walking beside him trying to hold the files steady and stopping every few yards to grab at torn, gritty pages that had loosed themselves from the pile and fluttered into the road. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he muttered, and went in search of the remains of his office.
Constable Bainbridge, aided by a policewoman, had managed to gather a few of the unspoilt bits and pieces in a desk drawer. Looking through them, Stratton was pleased to see that the photograph of Jenny and the kids which he kept tucked out of sight, was, miraculously, intact. A good omen, he thought – not so much as a crack in the glass. His notes on the girl who’d been assaulted at the nightclub were also unharmed. Thank heavens for small mercies, Stratton thought, as he shook them to get rid of the dust.
Seating himself on a couple of the wooden food boxes provided by Veeraswamy’s, he began making out a list of the nightclubbers he needed to interview. Halfway through, he stopped to light a cigarette and gazed at the chaos around him. It was all very well, he thought, for SDI Roper to make fatuous remarks about keeping
going and muddling through, but he wasn’t the one who had to do it. And as for the corpse in the church … Stratton drew in a soothing lungful of smoke, and sighed deeply. I know bugger nothing, he thought. Bugger nothing, bugger all.