Authors: Laura Wilson

An Empty Death (62 page)

BOOK: An Empty Death

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Stratton thought that Fay was going to cry again, but she didn’t. Thumping both fists down hard on the table, she said, ‘That bastard ! I’m glad he’s dead. And Dacre . . .’ Her face tightened, so that, for a moment, she looked almost demonic. ‘How could he do that to me? And he got me into trouble - that morphine . . . It wasn’t fair.’

‘What about Leadbetter?’ asked Stratton.

‘Her!’ Fay’s voice was full of contempt. ‘Interfering, pious little . . . She saw me come back. She came into the bathroom as I was climbing through the window, she saw the dirt on my hands, and there was blood on them, and it was smeared on my clothes - I suppose I must have touched them. I told her I’d had an accident, fallen over in the blackout. She believed me, but when we heard about Duncan, bloody Maddox must have been gossiping . . . I didn’t realise it was her until you more or less told me, Inspector, but she must have said something to Leadbetter, because Leadbetter told me I had to tell the police, or she would . . . She said a lot of things about how it was wrong - morals and religion - but I knew she was jealous because she couldn’t get a man to look at her. I had to stop her. I had to.’

Stratton stared at her, seeing only self-pity and justification. Fay Marchant, he thought, saw other people merely as a means to an end, or - in the case of poor Nurse Leadbetter - as obstacles to be got out of the way. What a waste, he thought. A waste of a beautiful and intelligent girl. ‘Let’s stop for a minute,’ he said, ‘and I’ll see if I can’t rustle up a cup of tea.’

Policewoman Harris stepped forward, but Stratton held up his hand. ‘I’ll go.’ Fay Marchant sickened him, and he wanted - if only for a couple of minutes - to get out of her presence.

Drawing the door of the interview room closed behind him, he went to ask Arliss to bring some cups of tea and fetch Sergeant Ballard to take a statement. He supposed he ought to have a sense of triumph - after all, he’d just solved three murders, hadn’t he? But now that the blaze in his head as he’d forged connection after connection had died down, all he felt was weariness, disgust, and a sense of anticlimax. What did he have to look forward to now? Getting used to missing Jenny. He’d thought that collaring Dacre would lessen his guilt, if not his grief, but he saw now that it had made no difference. Looking back over the last few weeks, he realised that whole minutes had passed without him thinking of Jenny, and he knew that, as time went on, the minutes would turn into hours, and perhaps - although he could not imagine this - even days. He hated the idea, but common sense told him that it was inevitable. But she will be with me, he told himself. She will be in my heart. Whatever happens, I shall keep her there always.

Eighty-Two

O
n VE day the station was, as Stratton had predicted, a madhouse. Thinking ahead, he’d warned Doris that he wasn’t sure when he’d be home, and the events of the morning proved him right. There were already large crowds in Piccadilly, restless for information, when the radio announcement of Germany’s unconditional surrender was made in the afternoon of the seventh, and many people didn’t bother going home, but started to celebrate there and then. As more and more people poured in to join the revellers, the sirens and hooters of boats and tugs from the river could be heard above the cheers and singing.

In no time at all, the charge room was a maelstrom of roaring soldiers, hysterically tearful tarts, exhausted coppers who’d had their helmets pinched, lost children, stray dogs, and Freddie the flasher, who had been unable to restrain himself at the sight of such a large audience, and was, as usual, claiming that he had a weak bladder.

With hoards of people surging through Piccadilly, climbing up lamp-posts and jigging around the still boxed-up statue of Eros, DCI Lamb issued orders that everyone was to remain on duty until further notice.

‘I doubt we’d be able to get home anyway, sir,’ said Ballard philosophically. They’d taken five minutes off to go up to the fire-watchers’ station on the roof of West End Central to survey the scene, and were staring out at a sea of waving Union Jacks and red, white and blue ribbons.

‘It’s quite a relief, isn’t it, sir?’

‘That’s an understatement. I just wish my Jenny were here to see it.’ Stratton hadn’t meant to say this out loud, but it just seemed to come out of his mouth.

Ballard cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

Seeing that he’d embarrassed the younger man, Stratton gestured towards Piccadilly and said, ‘Still, they seem to be having a good time, don’t they?’

‘Yes, sir. Looks quite a party.’

‘When it’s all over, I’m sure you’ll be having a private celebration with Miss Gaines, won’t you?’

Ballard grinned. ‘I’m looking forward to it, sir. And, sir . . .’

‘Ye-es?’

‘Thank you. For not knowing, if you see what I mean.’

‘I do indeed. It’s been a while now, hasn’t it? Are you planning to make an honest woman of her?’

‘Yes, sir. In fact, I was thinking of asking her when we have that private celebration you mentioned.’

‘Good idea. I’m sure you’ll make a good husband. Just remember, ’ he added, thinking of Jenny, ‘to come off duty when you get home.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

‘Good. Come on then, we’d better get back to the fray.’

For the next twenty-four hours, during which there had been a massive thunderstorm that sent all but the most hardened revellers scurrying for cover, Stratton barely had a moment to sit down, much less think, and by the time that Lamb - very much to his surprise - told him, at six p.m. the next day, that he was relieved, he felt that he barely had the energy to make his way through the packed crowds in Regent Street to catch the bus. Despite the previous night’s weather, the day was beautifully sunny, and with bright bunting and streamers that seemed to blur before his tired eyes, and roars of ‘Knees up Mother Brown’ and various less savoury ditties ringing in his ears, he jammed himself into a hot, packed bus and stood swaying in the press of bodies, many of whom were whooping and shouting at the tops of their voices. When he got out at the Swan at Tottenham, he felt bruised all over.

The pub’s doors were open, and people were standing on the pavement, drinking beer. He went to the door and peered through the smoke for Donald, who spotted him from the middle of the crush and bellowed, ‘Wait there, I’ll bring you a drink!’

Stratton leant against the wall, tilted his face up to the sun, and closed his eyes. Images from the past week - the cheering crowds, Strang’s despairing face, and Fay’s venomous one - played across his mind like a film in slow motion. The - very difficult - interview he’d had with Strang’s mother a couple of days earlier had revealed further information about how the family had lost all their money, so that it was never on the cards for Strang to go to university. It really was extraordinary, Stratton thought: Strang realised he couldn’t change the world, so he’d simply changed himself. What a bloody waste . . .

Donald appeared, grinning and bearing two pints of beer, one of which he thrust into Stratton’s hand. ‘To victory!’ he said, raising his glass.

‘Victory!’

Donald took a swig of his beer, and said, ‘And Reg’s not here. Too busy supervising building the bonfire on the common. Happy as Larry, last time I saw him.’

‘At least he’s got something to do,’ said Stratton. ‘He’s been like a lost lamb ever since the Home Guard was stood down.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ said Donald. ‘Christ knows what he’ll do with himself now.’

‘Probably hang around the allotment giving me instructions,’ said Stratton. ‘Oh, well . . . Cheers, then!’

Three pints later - the pubs had been sent extra supplies - Stratton and Donald wandered back home together, singing. ‘I’m going back to Imazaz, Never again to roam, I’m jogging along, Singing a song, A day’s march nearer home . . .’

‘I got some Union Jacks from the tobacconist,’ said Donald. ‘The kids helped me put them up. They were ever so excited. They’ve been collecting rags to stuff Hitler with, for the bonfire. Monica did his face. She’s a good little artist, your daughter.’

‘Yes, she is,’ said Stratton, thinking that, while Doris and Donald’s house would have bunting and all the rest of it, his own would be bare of decoration. Still, at least the kids were enjoying themselves . . . Pushing his thoughts aside, he began to sing again, and Donald joined in: ‘There’s a cottage so sweet, At the top of the street, And it’s number ninety-four, So I’m going back to Imazaz,
Imazaz the pub next door!
’

‘You’ve been drinking, Daddy,’ said Monica sternly as, arm in arm, Stratton and Donald stumbled through Doris’s front door. ‘With your black eye, it makes you look very disreputable.’

‘Yes, love,’ said Stratton, meekly. ‘Sorry. I didn’t think I’d be able to get home at all, and then I saw Donald in the Swan.’

‘That’s right, blame me,’ said Donald.

He kissed Doris, who said, ‘Whooh . . .’ and laughed, fanning her face with her hand at his breath.

The bonfire was fun, and there were fireworks and lots of singing, and Reg had a wonderful time supervising the roasting of a whole pig on a spit. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ Stratton asked Donald, who winked and said, ‘Best not to ask.’

Later, when it got dark, someone brought out a gramophone, and he, Donald and Doris sat on the grass, sipping their drinks and watching Madeleine dancing with her new boyfriend, along with dozens of others, while the younger kids ran around and mucked about.

‘We could have a holiday,’ said Doris. ‘All together, like the old days. Remember where we stayed at Eastbourne - Mrs Jenkins? We could go back.’

‘If she’s still there,’ said Donald.

‘Well, of course, silly. Be just like old times, wouldn’t it?’ Realising what she’d said, she looked at Stratton. ‘I’m sorry, Ted. It won’t be the same without Jenny, and of course you don’t want to go back to the same place. It was a thoughtless thing to say.’

‘No.’ Stratton smiled at her. ‘I know what you meant. And I’d like to go to Eastbourne again.’

‘Oh, Ted . . .’ Doris linked her arm through his, and Stratton patted her hand.

‘It’s all right, love. Let’s just enjoy the evening, shall we?’

They sat in silence for a minute, then a boy put a new record on the gramophone, and Donald said, ‘Come on, Doris, let’s have a dance.’

‘And get my feet trampled?’

‘Come on.’ Donald got up and pulled his wife with him. ‘I can’t remember the last time I trampled on your feet.’

Doris grimaced. ‘Very romantic. And I don’t know what this music is - it’s all hooting and tooting.’

‘We’ll manage. Best foot forward.’

‘You haven’t got a best foot, Don,’ grumbled Doris, but she let him pull her into the throng.

Monica must have caught sight of Stratton sitting alone, because she came and plumped herself down beside him.

‘You’re a bit of a ragamuffin yourself, now,’ he said, noticing that she looked unusually tomboyish, with her face smudged by soot from the bonfire and her legs stuck out gawkily in front of her.

‘Who cares?’ she said, happily. ‘This is good, isn’t it? Look at Auntie Doris and Uncle Donald.’

Doris and Donald were engaged in what looked more like a shin-kicking contest than a dance, with Doris hopping out of the way and protesting loudly. ‘Oh, dear . . .’ he said.

‘You could have danced with Mum,’ said Monica, sadly. ‘She liked dancing.’

‘Yes, she did,’ said Stratton. ‘I’m not sure she liked dancing with me, though. She always said I wasn’t a whole lot better than your uncle.’

‘She wouldn’t have minded,’ said Monica. ‘Not this evening . . . Do you think about her a lot, Dad?’

‘Yes,’ said Stratton.

‘I do, too.’

‘Do you think Pete does?’

‘Yes,’ said Monica. ‘But he doesn’t like talking about her. I do, though. I didn’t talk about her much to Mrs Chetwynd, because . . .’ Monica paused, trying to find the right words to explain why not.

‘Because . . .’ prompted Stratton.

‘Because . . . Well, because it didn’t feel right, because Mrs Chetwynd didn’t know Mum, not really, and I thought she might not like it because she was looking after us, so she . . . she . . .’

‘She was like a foster-mother?’

‘Well,’ said Monica. ‘She was really. Pam - from school - had a horrible time, but we were lucky. That was because of you and Mum arranging it. We are grateful, you know.’

Stratton smiled at her. ‘We did our best. Did you think it might upset Mrs Chetwynd if you talked about Mum?’

‘I thought it might not be fair,’ said Monica.

‘I’m sure she wouldn’t have minded, love,’ said Stratton, marvelling at his daughter’s thoughtfulness in such circumstances, even though it was misplaced.

Stratton heard Monica’s in-drawn breath and felt her sit up straight, as if she were priming herself to ask something.

‘Can we talk about her sometimes, Dad?’

BOOK: An Empty Death

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