‘Remember that chap in the barber’s shop a couple of months ago? The business over the hairbrush and the spectacles?’
‘I’m not likely to forget it in a hurry, sir.’
‘His name’s Mr Rogers. He was one of the residents of the bombed house at Conway Street where Mabel Morgan lived. He’s a potential witness, so we need to find him.’
Ballard looked as if he’d like to ask several questions about this, but merely said, ‘I’ve got the details in my notebook, sir, but as to where he is now …’
‘Try the Wardens’ Post first. If they can’t help, try the Assistance Board. Someone must know.’ Stratton lit a cigarette, hoping it would help him concentrate. He was exhausted. He’d spent the night pent up in the narrow bunk in the Anderson, listening to Jenny weep and desperately searching for some reason, however slender, not to tell Forbes-James about Johnny. Around four o’clock in the morning, when Jenny’s sobs had subsided, he’d fallen into a troubled doze and dreamt that Jenny, Lilian and Doris were ranged in front of him like judges in a court, while he stood in the dock and Reg pronounced the death sentence, and Pete and Monica up in the gallery turned their backs and would not look at him.
He’d tormented himself during the bus ride to work, wondering what the children would say when they discovered their cousin had been arrested. Monica had never seemed to like Johnny much (‘He’s rude, Daddy. Rude and nasty.’) but Pete, he suspected, would be rather enamoured of the idea of becoming one of his gang. Several times, Stratton had caught him imitating Johnny’s swaggering walk, and he’d once pinched a packet of cigarettes for the purpose of currying favour with his cousin. Stratton had given him hell for that and he’d promised never to do it again, but all
the same … Supposing his children never forgave him? That would be hardest of all. There was also, as Jenny had reminded him while they were preparing for bed, the matter of Mrs Chetwynd, who might well decide that she didn’t want the relatives of a criminal under her roof.
Thinking of all this made Stratton want to grab Johnny by the scruff of the neck and thrash him to within an inch of his life. The stupid little fucker had messed things up for everyone, himself included. He cast the whole issue from his mind – dwelling on it could do no good at all – and turned his attention back to Ballard.
‘How are you getting on with the rest of it? Gaines giving you a hand, is she?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Ballard ventured a grin, leading Stratton to wonder if he should utter a word of warning about keeping things discreet. Before he had time to pursue the thought, Ballard had stuck a sheaf of notes under his nose.
‘Here’s what we’ve got so far, sir. Nothing for Henry Twyford for the date you gave me, but we found a Cecil Henry Duke, born sixteenth April 1888 in Torquay, died thirteenth August 1935. That was in the fire, sir. Identity confirmed by his wife Mabel Morgan. A neighbour saw the smoke and called the fire brigade, but they were too late to save him, or the house. Body was in quite a state, apparently.’
‘So she wouldn’t have been able to identify it by looking at it?’
‘Not by the features, sir, but she said it was him. Wasn’t it?’
‘I very much doubt it,’ said Stratton.
‘They’re sending us the report, sir, but I don’t think there’ll be much there. As far as they were concerned, it was an accident. They didn’t investigate.’
‘They’d no reason to,’ said Stratton. ‘You’d better see if you can track down Duke’s dentist in Sussex – assuming he had one – and give Dr Byrne a call. We’ll need photographs of the teeth from the body in the church. Those,’ he scribbled the address, ‘are the details, but I imagine he’ll remember it well enough. Even if a dentist doesn’t have Mr Duke’s records, they can often identify their own handiwork. You’ll also need to contact the major shipping lines and check passenger lists to America – see if Cecil Duke travelled there between …’ Stratton thumbed through his notes
to find the interview with Chadwick, ‘May 1935, when we know he was in England, and mid-August, when he’s supposed to have died. And see if you can find evidence of a return passage, either for Cecil Duke or the other name he used, Henry Twyford, in ’39, up to October.’
‘I’ll do my best, Sir. Will that be all?’
‘For the moment, yes.’
Stratton looked at his watch, found that it was almost midday, and wondered what, apart from miserably turning things over in his mind, he’d been doing all the morning. In the absence of Miss Legge-Brock and the Bentley, he decided to walk down to the Embankment in the hope that it might help to clear his head, and then catch a bus to Dolphin Square.
The fresh air, such as it was, did not have the desired effect. Everything he saw – buildings, shelters, people, even bloody sandbags – seemed to remind him of Johnny or Jenny or the kids. Looking into Suffolk Place as he passed down the Haymarket, he caught sight of a bombed house, the outer wall and stairs collapsed across the pavement and the lavatory, complete with cistern and chain, perched precariously on the landing above. Down the pan to nowhere: it was a suitable picture of where his career seemed to be heading. And, he thought, I’m on my way to pull the plug and land not only myself but my whole family, up to our necks in shit. He bent his head and, hands in pockets, trudged on towards Whitehall.