Authors: Laura Wilson
An Empty Death (44 page)
‘They never tidy up,’ he grumbled. ‘I should just move those . . .’ he indicated some cardboard folders on the armchair, ‘onto the floor and take a seat.’
Stratton did so, and there was a short pause while the telephonist brought in the tea tray and provided Forbes-James, who was, in a fashion Stratton found immediately familiar, ineffectually patting his pockets and peering under things on the desk, with a light for his cigarette.
‘Help yourself,’ said Forbes-James. ‘There’s a box on the mantelpiece.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Stratton rose and negotiated his way across the cluttered room to get a cigarette.
The girl having distributed the tea and left, Forbes-James said, ‘The man you mentioned on the telephone - what have you got?’
Producing his notebook to refresh his memory, Stratton explained the situation, then, taking a deep breath, said, in the most neutral tone he could manage, ‘Also, we did wonder, sir, if there might not have been some sort of . . . attachment between Dr Byrne and Todd. It would explain the presence of the photograph hidden in his home, sir.’
Forbes-James stared at him for a moment, his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly. ‘Yes,’ he said, blandly, ‘I suppose it would. But then again, it might be evidence of something entirely different.’
‘Of course, sir. It was only a theory.’
Forbes-James, said, ‘I see.’ The two men gazed at each other intently for what could only have been a few seconds but felt, to Stratton at least, like quite a lot longer. He wasn’t sure if he should say something, or wait for Forbes-James to speak, and hoped that his silence would not be construed as either offensiveness, or - worse - some sort of implied threat. Before he could come to a conclusion about any of this, much less act on it, Forbes-James said, ‘Anything else?’
‘Only these.’ Stratton produced two of the mortuary photographs from his pocket and handed them over.
‘Hmmm . . . Not very clear, are they? Could be anybody.’
‘That’s the trouble, sir.’
‘Yes . . . Does your superior officer know about this visit, Stratton?’
‘No, sir.’ Stratton permitted his eyes to stray over to the left, in the direction of the landscape painting that had replaced the nude boy.
The silence that followed was even more uncomfortable than the previous one. Stratton, feeling Forbes-James’s eyes boring into him like gimlets, was on the point of saying that he knew it was a long shot and he was sorry to waste the colonel’s time, when Forbes-James said, ‘And you want my help, do you?’
‘I would appreciate it, sir, yes. Government departments - as I’m sure you know, sir - can be reluctant to give information, especially in circumstances like this, where a false name seems to have been used.’
‘And not necessarily the name Todd. You’ve checked his last known address, have you?’
‘Yes, sir. He told his landlady he’d got a job in the north somewhere. She was under the impression that he was medically exempt from the forces.’
‘Was she, indeed? Clearly didn’t trouble to get his story straight . . . I can see that it might be rather delicate for you to get the information - no smoke without fire, and so on. You don’t suspect anything of that sort, do you?’
‘Subversion? No, sir. I can’t imagine he’d have got himself a job in a hospital mortuary if that were the case - it’s hardly the place for that sort of thing.’
Forbes-James put his head on one side and regarded Stratton for just long enough for him to start feeling twitchy again. ‘That rather depends,’ he said, ‘although I grant you that it does seem unlikely. I am,’ he added, ‘prepared to help you - although it sounds as though it won’t be easy.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘If you discover anything else, you’ll let me know immediately. And - at least for the moment - I shall regard it as a matter for this department only. I’ll have some discreet enquiries made, show these,’ he tapped the photographs, ‘around the place. You’d better telephone me in a week’s time.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘Very well.’ Forbes-James’s gaze lingered on Stratton for a moment, before he turned his head away, as if in dismissal.
Stratton rose. ‘I’m very grateful to you, sir.’
‘I’d save your gratitude, if I were you. We’ve not come up with anything yet.’
‘No, sir. But thank you.’ Stratton knew that it was time to leave, but, for a wild moment, his desire to ask after Diana proving stronger than his common sense, he remained where he was.
‘Yes?’ said Forbes-James, with a touch of asperity.
‘Well, sir . . . I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how is Mrs Calthrop?’
Forbes-James’s smile, which did not reach his eyes, had a mask-like quality that was somehow far more of a warning than the menacing bonhomie exhibited by any gangster, and served to remind Stratton that, whatever the man did, his manners would remain impeccable. ‘You were rather taken by her, weren’t you?’
‘Well, sir, I did wonder - I mean, it must have been a dreadful shock, finding that body.’
‘I’m sure it was. But - to the best of my knowledge, at least - she is very well.’
‘She’s not here, then?’ As he spoke, Stratton realised quite how much he had wanted to see Diana, and hoped his disappointment did not show on his face.
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘In Hampshire. Living with her mother-in-law. I believe,’ he added, in careful tones, ‘that she is starting a family.’
‘That’s splendid, sir,’ said Stratton, aware, as he said it, that the words were too loud, too hearty.
As he clattered down the stairs, Stratton reflected that he’d just put himself, irrevocably, into Forbes-James’s debt. He’d just have to hope it was worth it. He cursed himself for asking about Diana, but she’d seemed so close there, in Forbes-James’s office, almost a tangible presence . . .
And now she was in Hampshire, having a baby. He couldn’t imagine Diana pregnant, it seemed too . . . too what, Stratton wasn’t sure, but the idea of it made him uncomfortable, somehow. He wanted to remember her as she was. Not that there was anything wrong with being pregnant, of course, as long as she was pleased about it. Stratton wondered if the father was her husband, or Claude Ventriss who - four years ago, at least - had been her lover. None of your business, pal, he told himself. Head down against the spiteful wind that gusted across the river, he began trudging down Grosvenor Road towards Westminster.
What a mess . . . Todd, Byrne, Reynolds, Nurse Leadbetter, Fay, and thoughts of Diana obscuring any clarity of mind he might hope to achieve . . . The whole thing was tangled up in his head like a . . . the idea of something tangled brought back Dr Dacre’s description of torsion of the testicle so suddenly and powerfully that Stratton felt sick. Deciding that he needed somewhere out of the wind to sit down and straighten himself out, he veered down a side street and found a small, sheltered square with a couple of benches facing a battered equestrian statue.
As he lit a cigarette, it crossed his mind that he might write to Diana. It would be easy enough to discover her address - just go into a library and look it up in one of those directories of posh people, Burke’s or Debrett’s or whatever it was. But what would he say? I’ve been thinking about you and I hope you are well . . . What a stupid idea! She probably doesn’t even remember me, he thought.
He forced his thoughts back to his conversation with Colonel Forbes-James, and he wondered if he - or his department - would be able to turn up anything on Todd. He supposed he ought to feel sorry for Forbes-James, having to go through life trying not to be found out. Eyeing a pretty, slender girl who was sashaying across the other side of the square, Stratton tried to picture himself looking at a man in the same way, but failed. So difficult to imagine things which were entirely outside your experience, especially when they were of an emotional nature.
Sometimes, Stratton thought, it was as if the world around him had turned into a place that - though much like the one he was used to, at least in terms of general appearance - had a different sort of logic from normal, or no logic at all. If only his intuition would point him in a particular direction, instead of just giving him a feeling that things were askew . . .
He looked again at the pretty girl - back view, now, and very nice, too. She reached the edge of the pavement, and was about to cross the road when, apparently sensing his gaze, she turned and gave him a modest smile that reminded him of Fay. Pregnancy, he thought. What about pregnancy? He smiled back at the girl, then pulled his notebook out of his pocket and thumbed through the pages until he came to the notes he’d made during their second interview. She said she’d written the note - in the belief that she was pregnant - ‘quite soon after Easter’. Stratton read the words FM had 2 days’ leave at or near Easter, went to see parents nr Cheltenham. He had just assumed that this was the truth, and never checked. He ought to, and the sooner the better.
He flicked his cigarette end onto the ground, trod on it, and, sighing heavily, got to his feet and marched off to catch a number 24 bus to Tottenham Court Road. From there, it was a short walk to the hospital.
Fifty-Two
T
welve days late, and she still hadn’t got round to making a doctor’s appointment. He’d only tell her to wait it out, anyway. She’d had morning sickness with both Monica and Pete, but she couldn’t remember when she’d started to feel it. There had been a definite point when she’d felt different - pregnant - but when?
welve days late, and she still hadn’t got round to making a doctor’s appointment. He’d only tell her to wait it out, anyway. She’d had morning sickness with both Monica and Pete, but she couldn’t remember when she’d started to feel it. There had been a definite point when she’d felt different - pregnant - but when?
Jenny stared at the pile of socks at her feet, then glanced over at Elsie Ingram, who appeared to be dozing on the sofa. She picked up another pair and sat back in her chair. She was darning over darns, now, so that no matter how careful she was the socks always ended up with lumpy bits on the toes and heels. Ted had always been tough on socks - it was worse when they were first married and he’d been on the beat, but at least then it had been easier to buy new ones. As long as she could make the wool last out . . .
At least you could listen to the wireless while you were darning. It was music now - jazzy stuff. The kind of thing Ted liked better than she did, but it was company of a sort. She hadn’t got it very loud, but all the same, she thought, if Mrs Ingram can sleep through this, then I’m a Dutchman. She glanced again at her guest and thought she saw an eyelid flicker. It was horrible, being watched, surreptitiously, all the time. Made you feel like you were being spied on in your own home. I’m sure she’s trying to guess what’s in my mind, Jenny thought, she’s reaching out invisible feelers like some sort of insect. And Doris had put up with it for over a month! Jenny didn’t feel as if she could manage another day. She felt guilty about being irritated with the poor woman, but honestly, it was enough to drive you round the twist. The letters to Mr Ingram, sent care of the army - three, so far - had got them nowhere at all. Ted had told them not to bother - said they wouldn’t give them to him if he was being punished for deserting.
Having her here meant it was impossible to talk to Ted properly. It was worse than when the children were small - at least she’d known what to do when they started crying. Mrs Ingram, with her slow, hopeless, endless tears was a different thing altogether. Not to mention the fact that Ted had arrived home late last night smelling strongly of beer, made a great racket in the hall and argued with her when she’d tried to shush him. She’d been surprised - and not a little upset - by how belligerent he was. Being tipsy usually made him happy, then sleepy, not angry.
She sighed, and looked again at Mrs Ingram, whose head was now slightly angled towards her. She was convinced that the moment she looked down at the sock in her hand, the wretched woman would open her eyes and stare at her. Honestly, you couldn’t call your thoughts your own . . .
She supposed it was her fault for agreeing to have her here in the first place, but what was she supposed to do? Other than talk to Dr Makepeace about the you-know-where . . . As far as that was concerned, Jenny could feel her resolve weakening already, Auntie Ivy or no Auntie Ivy.
She’d go round and have a word with Doris about speaking to Dr Makepeace. She felt bad about it but Mrs Ingram seemed to be getting worse, not better, and if she pulled a stunt like that gas business here and Ted found out about it, it would have to be reported. She’d go round there later on - there’d be plenty of time to get the dinner when she got back.
She selected another sock and resumed her darning. Dr Makepeace, having confessed surprise that Mrs Ingram wasn’t ‘pulling out of it’ on several occasions, had started talking about ‘persecution mania’ and how the workings of the mind were not fully understood. Adjusting the heel on the smooth wooden surface of the mushroom, Jenny thought that ‘persecution mania’ wasn’t a very good name for Mrs Ingram’s problem - really, if people who’d had their homes destroyed on top of them weren’t entitled to feel persecuted, then who was?
The term wasn’t in her ‘Home Doctor’ book, although Insanity and Mental Disease were. She’d spent an unhappy half an hour reading about how women could be affected by what they called the ‘crises of life’ - puberty, the change, and pregnancy. Mrs Ingram was too old for the first, two young for the second, and, her husband having been away for months, unlikely to be experiencing the third. There was stuff about syphilis, and drinking too much, and tumours, and physical exhaustion, but ‘brain injury’ was the only one likely to be applicable, and if that had happened, surely they wouldn’t have let her out of hospital? The thing that made most sense was a cross-reference to Monomania. The patient’s whole interest is centred around one delusion or false belief . . . Nothing about how to cure it, though, and—
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