Policewoman Gaines was waiting for Stratton when he arrived at Great Marlborough Street at half-past eight. ‘Good morning, sir. I’ve been asked to tell you that DCI Machin wants a word, sir.’
‘Machin?’ Stratton was momentarily confused.
‘Our governor, sir.’
‘Yes, of course. Now?’
‘Yes, sir. He said immediately.’
‘Right-o. Lead the way.’
Following Gaines down the corridor, Stratton wondered at the sudden urgency. He hadn’t seen anything of DCI Machin, beyond a quick welcome-to-the-station and we’re-rather-tight-for-space conversation, and had assumed, or, rather, hoped, that he’d be left alone to get on with his job.
‘DI Stratton, sir.’ Gaines withdrew, and DCI Machin, who had been seated behind his desk, half rose, looking uncomfortable. ‘Stratton. Take a seat.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Machin sat down again, cleared his throat several times, and said, ‘Settling in all right?’
‘Yes thank you, sir.’ For God’s sake, thought Stratton, get on with it, man. You didn’t summon me here for that. Machin hummed and ha’d a bit, in the manner of someone who wasn’t sure how to break bad news. Stratton’s mind leapt immediately to the obvious, and he said, urgently, ‘It’s not my wife, is it, sir? She hasn’t been …’
‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
Thank Christ for that, thought Stratton. Relief made him miss the first part of what Machin said next.
‘ … from Scotland Yard. I understand you went to see …’ he glanced at his notes, ‘Sir Neville Apse, yesterday morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well …’ Machin looked even more uncomfortable. ‘He’s not very happy about it.’
‘Sir Neville isn’t?’
‘No. And neither was SDI Roper, when Sir Neville made his complaint.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. His handkerchief was found on a murder victim. The body hasn’t been identified yet, and …’
Machin held up a hand. ‘Be that as it may …’ Be that as it may? I don’t believe I’m hearing this, thought Stratton. ‘I have strict instructions that he is not to be troubled again.’
Troubled? ‘This is a murder investigation, sir. I have to—’
‘SDI Roper was very clear. You are not to approach Sir Neville again unless you have permission to do so.’
‘May I ask why, sir?’
Machin looked at Stratton with an I’m-finding-this-hard-enough-so-don’t-make-it-any-worse expression on his face. ‘Sir Neville is engaged in work of national importance.’ He pronounced the last two words with audible capital letters.
You mean he’s MI5, thought Stratton. A spy, and a well-connected one at that. ‘I’ll request permission next time, sir.’
‘It would be better if there wasn’t a next time,’ said Machin, pointedly, adding, ‘but I’m sure there won’t be any need.’
Christ Almighty, thought Stratton. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage. ‘I’ll see to it.’
Stratton was relieved to find his office empty; he needed a few minutes by himself. He supposed he ought to thank his lucky stars that DCI Lamb hadn’t been on the receiving end of the telephone call, or he’d never have heard the last of it. SDI Roper being ‘very clear’ meant that Machin had been given a rocket, which, given that Stratton didn’t even work for him, was bloody unfair. And really, Machin had been pretty decent about it, considering … All the same, life was quite difficult enough without the two of them going on as if he’d just farted in church.
Policewoman Gaines put her head round the door. ‘I thought you might like a cup of tea, sir.’
‘Thank you.’ Stratton took a sip of the grey liquid, and grimaced.
‘Sorry, sir. It’s the best we can do.’
‘It’s warm and wet, anyway.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got a message for you, from the hospital.’
‘Which one?’
‘The Middlesex, sir. It’s about Emmanuel Vaisey. Brought in dead last night, Sir. Heart attack. Wife identified him. They think he’d been living on the streets.’
‘He was the one with mental trouble, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir. I suppose that must account for it.’
‘I should think so. Well, it’s one we don’t have to worry about.’
Arriving at the Express Dairy in Rathbone Place, which had been the workplace of the missing Peter Gannon, Stratton noted that the building was next door to the Wheatsheaf pub where Mabel Morgan had spent many, if not most, of her evenings. Stratton determined to enquire about her after he’d talked to Gannon’s employer Mr Smithson. At least, he thought, the barman wouldn’t be likely to telephone Scotland Yard with complaints about him.
Mr Smithson’s face darkened at the mention of Gannon. ‘Ran out on me, didn’t he? Did his rounds in the morning, and that was the last I saw of him. Letter five weeks later, giving notice – no forwarding address.’
‘Have you any idea where he’s gone?’
‘No. His wife might know, but …’ He shook his head. ‘Poor woman.
‘And you received this letter when?’
‘April sometime.’
‘Do you remember seeing a postmark?’
‘Can’t say I do. Something happened to him, has it?’
‘I hope not,’ said Stratton. ‘Unreliable, was he?’
‘No, his work was satisfactory – till he took off, that is.’
‘Why do you think he went?’
‘Don’t know. Might be a woman involved, I suppose, but I shouldn’t have thought he was much of a one for the ladies, not with that funny eye.’
‘Funny?’ Stratton looked at his notes again. ‘Oh, the cast.’
‘That’s right. Made him a bit odd looking.’
On the way out, Stratton caught sight of the machine for putting cream on pastries, which now stood unused, and wondered when he’d be able to have a rhum baba again. Not that they were ever as
good as they looked, but all the same … The memory of tea-time treats made him think of Monica and Pete. He’d be seeing them in less than a week … He thanked Mr Smithson, and went next door to the Wheatsheaf.
The barman was busy polishing glasses in the Saloon Bar. ‘We’re closed, sir.’
‘DI Stratton, Great Marlborough Street.’
‘Oh, sorry, sir. What can I get you?’
‘Nothing, thanks. I’ve come for a spot of information about one of your regulars – or former regulars. Have you worked here long?’
‘Past two years, sir.’
‘Right. What’s your name?’
‘Prewitt, sir.’ The barman sounded wary. ‘Shall I call the governor?’
‘That won’t be necessary. It’s about Miss Morgan.’
‘We heard about that. A real tragedy, that was.’
‘I understand she was often here.’
‘Oh, yes. Most evenings.’
‘What was she like? I mean, her behaviour.’
‘Well, she was friendly … I don’t really know what to say, just a nice woman.’
Stratton, noting that Prewitt had said woman, not lady, asked, ‘What did she sound like?’
‘Oh, you know … London.’
‘What sort of voice?’
‘Cockney, really. When she first told me she’d been in films I didn’t believe it, because she didn’t sound like they do, but then she told me it was before they brought out the talkies … She showed me a magazine with a photograph of her, before she had the accident – beautiful. You’d never have thought it, but it was all true. People used to buy her drinks, and she’d tell them about it and show the picture. You know the sort of thing, sir.’
Stratton, who did know the sort of thing, thought how sad it was to be reduced to cadging drinks in return for anecdotes.
‘Did she drink a lot?’
Prewitt thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘A fair bit, sir. We get a lot like that in here – writers and theatrical types. And like I said, a lot of people bought her drinks.’
‘Did she use any strange expressions? Old-fashioned slang, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, no, nothing like that.’
‘Would you say she was an educated person?’
‘Well, she wasn’t stupid, but I wouldn’t say she’d had a lot of schooling, no.’ None of which, Stratton thought, as he headed off in the direction of the Gannons’ flat in Scala Street, made Mabel Morgan sound anything like the writers of the letters in the deed box. Surely nobody who spoke normally would write in such an affected way? But if she wasn’t either Binkie or Bunny, why keep the letters?
Stratton turned this over in his mind as he waited for someone to answer the door. Mrs Gannon was a small woman, with bitter eyes and a sort of flattened quality, which – together with the faded floral pattern on her apron – made him think of a badly pressed flower.
When Stratton explained who he was and why he was there, she invited him in. The Gannon home was two rooms at the top of a dark staircase, and the whole house, as far as he could see, had a dilapidated air, inside and out. The main room, which contained a gas range and some threadbare washing drying on a clothes-horse in a corner, looked out onto a grimy school building and a yard, now empty of children.
‘Gone off, hasn’t he?’ Mrs Gannon said. ‘A woman.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’ asked Stratton.
‘Wrote me a letter, didn’t he? Wanted me to send his clothes, but I popped them, didn’t I? Needed the money. Said he’d send me something, but he never did.’
‘When did you receive the letter?’
Mrs Gannon shrugged. ‘Dunno. Spring, sometime. April, I think it was.’
‘Have you kept it?’
‘In there somewhere.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the second room.
‘Could I have a look at it, please?’
‘What d’you want to see it for?’
‘It’s just a routine enquiry, Mrs Gannon. Checking up on people who’ve gone missing.’
‘He’s not missing, is he? He’s with a woman.’
‘You didn’t tell them at the police station.’
‘Never thought, did I?’ she said, belligerently. ‘Got enough on my plate.’
‘May I see it?’
‘I suppose so.’ She disappeared into the other room and emerged a couple of minutes later, with a much-folded piece of paper, which she thrust at him. ‘Go on, then.’
He glanced through the letter: … and that is all I can say dear and I hope you will forgive me for it. If you would send my clothes on because I have not anything at present can you send them to this address which is where we are stopping at present. The address, written at the top, was in Belmore Lane, Holloway, N. Stratton noted it down and returned the letter to its owner. ‘I’ve not seen him since he went,’ said Mrs Gannon, adding, defiantly, ‘I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, and I don’t care, do I?’
Clattering down the stairs, Stratton decided that Mrs Gannon couldn’t have murdered her husband – not without help, anyway. She certainly didn’t look as if she could move a body or lift a paving stone on her own. Still, he’d need to speak to someone at the station in Holloway to check that Gannon was living at the address on the letter. He had a friend up there, Ralph Maynard, who’d been at Vine Street with him in the early days. A telephone call ought to do the trick. He could do that back at Marlborough Street.
When he got home that evening, Jenny handed him a message from Donald: Will have projector by tomorrow. When’s the film show?