Stratton was, on the whole, happy to be back at Great Marlborough Street. It was nice – last week’s meeting with poor Mrs Symmonds aside – to return to something like the old routine. He’d had a word with Johnny, who seemed, temporarily at least, sobered by his experience, and Reg was giving every indication of having forgotten his outburst. Jenny, who’d been greatly cheered up by the funny letters they’d received from Monica and Pete, had guessed that Reg would act as if the incident had never happened, and so far she’d been right. When Stratton had, with some misgivings, agreed to return the camel sword, Reg had received it as if it had merely been left behind.
He’d worried, afterwards, about his reckless parting shot to Forbes-James and the effect it might have on his report, but clearly the man thought he was far beyond threats, or rather, intimations of threats, from such an insignificant being as himself. And judging by DCI Lamb’s grudging praise at the Scotland Yard debriefing yesterday, it must have been a bloody good write-up.
In the ten days that had passed since he left Forbes-James’s office, Stratton’s thoughts had circled round and round the subject of Sir Neville’s death, crossing and re-crossing the same territory, never coming to any conclusions. The problem was that it wasn’t just a matter of what had happened, it was also a matter of what he wanted to think had happened. He was painfully aware that these two things might be contradictory, although he didn’t know whether he would be able to articulate – with, say, a gun to his head – exactly what it was that he did want to think.
Nothing would, or could, be proved about Sir Neville’s suicide and, Stratton thought, it might well have been exactly that, given the man’s predicament. That he hadn’t left a note didn’t necessarily
mean anything; some people didn’t. Sir Neville had known that they were closing in on him, and known, too, how much he had to lose. Not that there would have been any public disgrace – the Forbes-Jameses of this world didn’t allow that to happen to their own kind if they could possibly help it – but his loss of status, the accompanying rumours and a gradual but remorseless inching out would have been just as impossible to bear. So perhaps he had chosen, in order to make it easier on his family, to take the quickest way out …
But there were odd things – Forbes-James’s manner, for one. Mind you, as Stratton had often thought over the last couple of months, that might be due to the fact that Forbes-James worked in a place where the culture of secrecy was so strong that people didn’t tell you things even when you actually needed to know them. Of course, he hadn’t expected the man to be flinging himself about in hysterics, but all the same … And then there was the convenient presence of the doctor, another old school chum, presumably. And the telephone call to Ventriss before they went to Great Marlborough Street to see Wallace, and the ‘couple of things’ Forbes-James had said he needed to see to before they spoke to Abie Marks, and his telling Abie a) that Sir Neville wouldn’t help him, and b) that he’d made a full confession. Not to mention the fact that Forbes-James wouldn’t answer Stratton when he’d asked later if that were true …
Forbes-James had said that Diana found Sir Neville’s body at ‘about ten o’clock’ – after he’d returned from Soho. But supposing she’d found it before, and Forbes-James hadn’t mentioned it? Stratton could understand why he didn’t want Abie to know, but why not tell him? Or … Had Forbes-James known that it was going to happen? Had he, perhaps, spoken to Sir Neville, or had Ventriss been entrusted with the job of ensuring that Sir Neville took the gentleman’s way out? Helped him, even? It wasn’t impossible.
But then, why arrange matters so that Diana was the one to find the body? Why not ‘discover’ it himself? If he’d sent her over to Frobisher House deliberately, making an excuse about collecting some document or other … Forbes-James seemed genuinely fond of Diana. Would he really have done anything quite so callous?
He didn’t know. He wished he’d had a chance to speak to Diana, but there’d been no question of asking her what she thought. He
remembered how he’d last seen her, glimpsed through a half-opened door on the way to the bathroom, lying in bed in Forbes-James’s guest room, clad only in a slip, face pale and hair spread across the pillow. Poor Diana. What was going to happen to her?
‘Good news about West End Central.’ Jones dropped a pile of papers on Stratton’s half of the desk, curtailing his reverie. ‘Looks as if you’ll be back in your own little office come Christmas.’
‘Just when we were getting along so well, too.’ Stratton pointed at the new addition to the muddle. ‘What’s this?’
‘More witness statements from that shooting last week. The soldier who came home on leave and found his missus in bed with the lodger. I must say, I shall miss our cosy chats … Speaking of which, how did you get on at Scotland Yard yesterday?’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t describe SDI Roper as cosy. It was a lot more palaver about the national interest and public morale – in other words, keep your mouth shut if you know what’s good for you.’
‘So it’s all done with?’
Stratton nodded. ‘The best thing was that DCI Lamb, who has just returned from his convalescence, actually had to congratulate me, because of Colonel Forbes-James’s report. I thought for a second he was going to have a heart attack from the strain, but he just managed to force the words out.’
‘Bad, is he?’
‘Horrible. I thought being bashed on the head might improve him, but it hasn’t. You wait – he makes Machin look like a ray of sunshine.’
‘Crikey. By the way, have you noticed that love is in the air? PC Ballard and our Miss Gaines.’
‘I told them to keep it under wraps.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, I shan’t say anything. But it’s a bit much you lot coming in here and pinching our girls.’
‘Had your eye on her yourself, did you?’
‘Certainly not, I’m a married man. Mind you, I’d rather sleep with her with no clothes on than you in your best suit, any day. She’s the only decent looking bit of spare we’ve got.’
‘You’ve obviously never had the pleasure of seeing Arliss do his Carmen Miranda impression.’
‘No, thank God.’
‘It was in a revue for the Widows and Orphans. The memory still haunts me. And then he got all fed up because he left the hat lying about and someone pinched his bananas.’
‘Did you know they’re going to stop importing them?’ asked Jones.
‘Hats?’
‘No, bananas. Apparently they take up too much room in the ships.’
The telephone rang, and Jones stopped talking to pick it up. Stratton, who’d been about to busy himself tidying his desk, looked up when he heard Jones say, sharply, ‘When?’ and then, ‘Yes. Right away.’
Jones banged down the receiver and stared at Stratton without speaking for a moment. ‘This is not good,’ he said.
‘What isn’t?’
‘Abie Marks,’ said Jones. ‘Killed last night. And Wallace. They’ve gone and got themselves murdered.’
Stratton felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He remembered Forbes-James’s words the previous week about doubting that Marks or Wallace would complain of their treatment, and thought, I should have expected this. ‘How?’ he asked.
‘Single shot to the head, both of them. Blindfolded. Hands bound behind their backs. Sounds like an execution, doesn’t it?’
Stratton, unable to meet Jones’s eye, merely nodded.
‘They found them at the billiard hall, so it’s on your patch, not mine. And,’ Jones added, meaningfully, ‘you’re welcome to it.’
‘Jesus.’ Stratton ran his hands over his face.
‘Yes, well …’ Jones reached for his coat. ‘Look, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, and I don’t want to know. But this isn’t a gang thing, is it? Seeing Stratton hesitate, he added, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, old son. Like I say, I don’t know what’s been going on, but I don’t believe in coincidence.’ He shrugged. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Thanks,’ said Stratton dourly.
Jones turned in the doorway. ‘They’ll all be trying to muscle in on Marks’s territory, now,’ he said. ‘As if we didn’t have enough trouble.’
Left alone, Stratton slumped in his chair, feeling utterly defeated.
Now he, poor fool, would have to go through the motions of trying to solve the case … Fuck it! Furious, he swiped a hand across his desk, knocking the telephone and a slew of papers onto the floor. God knows, he thought, I’ve got few enough illusions left about the job, but this takes the biscuit. He jumped up, kicked the debris out of the way, grabbed his coat and hat, and strode out of the station.