A Capital Crime (24 page)

Emerging into the street, Stratton and Ballard were distracted from their conversation by shouts just ahead of them. Moving quickly to the site of the disturbance, they heard a female voice: ‘Murderer! You’ve killed my son!’

It was Mrs Davies. No longer small and neat, she was shrill and vengeful, eyes popping and fists clenched in rage, and yelling at the top of her voice with a hatred so palpable that everyone close was backing out of range. She was screaming at Backhouse who, vacant with shock, was staring at her. Just as Stratton and Ballard reached the pair of them, Edna Backhouse, goaded from her habitual meekness, sprang in front of her husband and, handbag clutched in front of her like a shield, shouted into the other woman’s face, ‘Don’t you dare say that! He’s a good man!’

As Ballard moved forward to take Mrs Davies’s arm and lead her away, Backhouse caught sight of Stratton and registering, through pink-rimmed eyes, who he was looking at, gave the discreet, complacent smile of one firmly re-established on the moral high ground.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Doris gazed at the dish of meagre-looking chops. ‘Tuppence off the meat ration – again,’ she said, wistfully. ‘I do wish they’d end it.’

‘Plenty of greens, anyway,’ said Donald, nodding approvingly at the khaki-coloured mound of spring cabbage, which was all that Stratton’s allotment was capable of producing in such a relentlessly wet April as this one.

‘Nature’s policemen, those,’ said Reg, helping himself. ‘Shouldn’t eat too much meat, anyway. Bungs you up.’

In order to forestall any enquiry as to the state of everyone’s bowels – Reg, who’d recently taken to studying the ‘Home Doctor’ book and now fancied himself an expert, was quite capable of it and he could see the fear in Lilian’s eyes – Stratton turned to Doris and said, ‘You decided to go to the Festival, then, when it opens?’

Before she could reply, Donald said, ‘The whole thing’s irresponsible, if you ask me. Eleven million pounds on a bloody carnival—’

‘Don!’ Doris glared at him.

‘Sorry, love, but that’s what it is. Eleven million quid on that when there’s people still need homes to live in – the government must want their heads seeing to.’

Stratton, who’d momentarily forgotten Don’s feelings about the Festival of Britain in his attempt to steer Reg away from bowel movements, said mildly, ‘Well, now we’ve got the thing, it might make a nice day out for the girls. I know Monica’s keen, aren’t you, love?’

Monica, her mouth full, nodded enthusiastically. Swallowing, she said, ‘Madeleine wants to go, too.’

‘Waste of money, if you ask me,’ grumbled Don.

‘Ted didn’t ask you, he asked me,’ said Doris. ‘And I want to go, too. I’d say we could all do with a day out.’

‘Well, I shall certainly be attending,’ said Reg, making it sound as if the aldermen of London were going to turn out
en masse
to greet him. ‘I think it’s a very good thing all round – “a tonic to the nation” as it’s been said.’

‘Opium for the nation, more like it,’ muttered Don.

‘Well I, for one, will be very interested to see these new scientific developments they’ve been talking about. It’s important to keep abreast of these things.’

After a brief pause, during which Doris looked daggers at Don and Stratton kept his eyes firmly on his plate so as not to have to look at him at all, Monica said, ‘What about you, Dad? Can you come?’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Stratton grinned at her. At least he got on with one of his children, he thought – Pete, taciturn and sullen throughout most of his Christmas visit, had hardly written since. ‘If you’re sure you want your old Dad tagging along, that is …’ Monica made a face at him. ‘Now things have calmed down a bit at work, I should think—’

‘Oh, Dad, I nearly forgot … Was this your man?’ Monica produced a folded sheet of newspaper from her pocket and passed it across the table to Stratton.

‘Reading
The Times
now, are we?’ asked Reg. ‘Very clever.’

‘Somebody had it at the studio, and I asked if I could take the cutting.’ Stratton unfolded the sheet and saw:

MURDERER HANGED

John Wilfred Davies, 25, lorry driver, of Paradise Street, Euston, London W.C., was executed yesterday at Pentonville for the murder of Judy, his 14-month-old daughter, on November 10, 1950. Davies was sentenced to death at the Central Criminal Court on February 13.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that was him.’ He’d known it was going to happen, but since he’d heard that Davies’s appeal had failed, he’d been trying not to think about it, and especially not about Davies’s mother. It was all too easy to imagine the woman’s pitiful hope of a reprieve, and how she must have felt when that had failed, as the inexorable days, and then the minutes, ticked away towards the bag on the head, the yank on the lever, the sudden drop … He pushed away the remains of his lunch.

‘Aren’t you going to finish that?’ asked Reg, leaning forward, fork poised to spear the remaining bits of meat.

Stratton shook his head. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Let’s have a look at the cutting,’ said Don. ‘Nasty … Looks like he got what he deserved.’ The piece of newspaper was handed around until, to Stratton’s relief, Doris announced that hanging wasn’t a suitable subject for the dinner table and removed it.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ said Monica, as they walked up to the allotment together after lunch. He hadn’t been looking for company but she’d volunteered to help him carry some flowerpots.

‘What for, love?’

‘That cutting about your murderer. I was trying to change the subject because I thought Uncle Reg and Uncle Don were going to have a row. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘You didn’t, love.’

‘Dad, I could see your face.’

‘Yes. I suppose …’

‘But he did do it, Dad, didn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes. He did it.’

‘Why? Who would kill a baby?’

‘We never got to the bottom of that. Davies was a pretty simple creature – it’s hard to understand how these people’s minds work.’

‘Well, I think it’s vile. He must have been horrible.’

But he wasn’t, thought Stratton. In many ways, he was rather
likeable. ‘Let’s talk about something else, love, shall we? What are you up to at work?’

‘I started work on a new picture this week –
The Belle of Bow
. It’s a comedy, but I don’t think it’s going to be very good. It’s got the wrong people in it.’

‘Who’s that, then?’

‘Donald Colgate. He’s very good at brooding and smouldering and slapping women, but he can’t do jokey stuff at all. He says the lines as if he doesn’t understand why they’re supposed to be funny. It’s driving Mr Carleton mad. He’s the director. Oh, and your friend is working on it, too. They’re getting married.’

‘Who is?’

‘Mrs Calthrop and Mr Carleton.’ As she spoke, Stratton went cold, the unexpectedness of it jolting him like an icy shower. ‘Nobody’s meant to know they’re engaged, but of course everyone does, and the whole studio’s been talking about them for weeks, because Mrs Calthrop isn’t divorced from Mr Calthrop yet.’ Monica talked on, about other people in the film’s crew, but Stratton barely heard her. For Christ’s sake, he told himself. Stop being ridiculous. What do you care about Diana Calthrop? It’s not as if you’ll ever see her again – and even if she wasn’t going to marry this other chap, she’d hardly look at you, would she?

It was an enormous relief when, on reaching the allotment, Monica took off back home and left him to his thoughts and – despite what he’d been telling himself – his disappointment.

Chapter Thirty-Three

James Carleton nodded at the row of slot machines on the promenade. ‘That’s how much we see of the outside world,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’ asked Diana.

Linking arms with her, he said, ‘I mean, my darling, that film directors have a very narrow view of things. The studio isolates us and we don’t see everyday life.’

‘You’re seeing it now. All this.’ Diana waved a hand at the fountains and bandstand and the people dancing with the neon shining behind them in the inky twilight waters of the Thames.

‘It’s a show, my darling. The Festival of Britain is simply a vast advertisement for things we can’t have because we’re exporting them all.’

‘But it’s lovely all the same. And as far as
things
are concerned, we’re luckier than most.’

‘Well, I am, because you’re going to marry me. Not sure it’s such a fortunate arrangement from your point of view, having to put up with me for the rest of your life … But you’re right about the things – you’ve done wonders with your new home. I’d no idea you had such a practical streak.’

‘Neither did I.’ Diana had spent every spare moment since she’d moved into her flat in redecorating; discovering, and revelling in, skills that she’d had absolutely no idea she possessed. Finding no wallpaper or paint to her liking in the shops, she’d taken to pestering the studio’s technical department for advice, and soon learnt how
to mix up the colours she wanted and how to apply them. Once she’d persuaded the painters and carpenters that she was serious, they’d been very helpful, even lending her a brown overall which she wore over an old summer dress. Wearing sandals, her face, hands and bare legs flecked with paint, she’d spent whole evenings transforming the place into somewhere bright and welcoming. It was so much nicer than James’s cramped rooms that they’d decided to make it their home after they were married.

‘And you’ve got a good eye,’ said James. ‘You could be a designer if you were trained up a bit.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes, I do. Don’t look so surprised. Do you remember when you said you weren’t intelligent enough for me and I said you were but you just didn’t know it?’

Diana nodded.

‘Well, this is the same sort of thing.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Diana. ‘But when you’re happy you feel as if you could do anything, don’t you? And I’ve got lots more ideas from looking around today.’

‘Darling …’ James pulled her into his arms. ‘At this rate, you’re going to run out of house. I don’t suppose they’ve got any vacancies in the Design Department right at the moment, but we could find out. I’d hate to lose you, but …’

‘But you’ve got me at home.’

‘That’s true. And as long as you fetch my slippers and bring me drinks I shan’t mind. Well, well, well …’

‘Well what?’

‘Over there – your little friend from the Make-up Department.’

Following his gaze, Diana saw Monica and, following just behind – she blinked, but it was, it really was – Inspector Edward Stratton.

‘Must be her father,’ said James. ‘They obviously haven’t seen us, so let’s—’

‘No, please,’ said Diana, delighted. ‘I know him.’

‘
Do
you? How?’

‘Tell you later.’ As she called out to Monica, Diana decided to tell James she’d met Stratton when her handbag had been pinched in the blackout. That was plausible enough – it must have happened to lots of people.

As they came towards her, she thought that, apart from a few grey hairs, Edward had hardly changed at all. The same impression of strength and calm, the broad shoulders and strong face, the broken nose and the wonderfully kind eyes … They really were the nicest eyes, she thought disloyally, of anyone she’d ever met. Realising that she was staring, she hastily stepped forward and made introductions. After a spot of handshaking and awkward remarks about it being unexpected and so on, no-one seemed to know quite what to say until James started talking about the Dome of Discovery, which they all agreed was wonderful.

When they parted a few minutes later – Edward saying gruffly, ‘Mustn’t detain you’ – James said, ‘Another conquest, I see. Father as well as daughter. You obviously made quite an impression on him – and he on you, judging from the way you were looking at each other.’

‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ Diana could feel that she was starting to blush, although, she told herself sharply, there was no reason for it. I shouldn’t have called out to Monica, she thought. I should have let them go past us. ‘In fact,’ she added, hastily, ‘I’m surprised he remembered me at all. We only met because—’

‘I suppose you must have come across quite a few policemen during the war,’ said James, matter-of-factly. ‘Oh, don’t look so alarmed – I’m not going to ask questions. I guessed you must have been a spy as soon as I met your friends the Andersons.’

‘What nonsense! Jock’s a civil servant, and I certainly wasn’t—’

James laughed. ‘Oh, it’s all right. But even if you weren’t exactly a spy, I know you can’t talk about it, whatever it was. Woman of mystery …’ He swung round to face her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Just adds to the attraction, my darling.’

‘Well,’ said Diana defensively, disengaging herself, ‘You’ve never said anything about
your
war, either.’

‘I was a junior member of the Crown Film Unit. Propaganda – very unheroic and not the least bit hush-hush. All very dull, which yours evidently wasn’t.’

‘I—’

‘Look, Diana, even before I met the Andersons, I knew that
something
must have happened to you, or you’d still be mouldering away in Hampshire, opening fetes and giving out cups at gymkhanas.’

‘I didn’t—’

James put a finger on her lips. ‘I don’t want to know. It’s the past. Over and done. All this’ – removing his finger, he flung out his arms – ‘is the future.
Our
future. And you are so beautiful. Utterly radiant. Would you care to dance?’

‘Why not?’ At that moment, flooded with relief, everything seemed so exciting and momentous that, with a waltz striking up in the background, Diana felt as though she were in a musical.

‘Come on, then.’ James took her hand and led her into the dancing throng.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Stratton wrenched off his tie and flung it down on the bed. He couldn’t ever remember feeling such a complete and utter idiot. Seeing Diana like that, and not knowing what to say … what an ass she must have thought him. Mr Carleton, too – he’d caught the amused look on the man’s face as he’d stammered and fidgeted and generally behaved like an imbecile.