The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (best thriller novels of all time .TXT) 📗

done without that murder – nearly put me off my breakfast.’

‘Not quite, though, eh? In fact I was under the impression that you’d had two breakfasts yesterday.’

‘Can’t work on an empty stomach, can we, sir?’

‘No – and speaking of work, which I believe is what you’re here for, have you spoken to Tom Gracewell yet? I want to know whether he can tell us anything about what kind of life Joan Lewis lived.’

‘Not yet, sir. I thought I’d catch him on my way in this morning, but it turns out he’s been given a day’s compassionate leave – his mother’s been bombed out of her house in Harwich and she’s in hospital. And you’ll never guess who did the bombing. I couldn’t believe it – they said it was the Italian air force.’

‘Well, I suppose they had to join in eventually – do their bit, as it were.’

‘Yes, but it’s a long way from Rome to Essex, isn’t it?’

‘It is, Peter, but just because they’re the Italian air force it doesn’t necessarily mean they have to take off in Italy. Hitler’s conveniently defeated France for them, so now they’re probably based just over the Channel somewhere, if only to save petrol.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Cradock, regretting having provided what had seemed to him an interesting detail.

‘Anyway, give my best wishes to Gracewell and his mother when you see him. When’s he due back?’

‘Tomorrow morning, sir. He’s on early turn, so I’ll try to catch him when he comes off duty at two.’

‘No. I’d like you to see him before he starts – see if you can catch him at half past five, before they parade for duty.’ He saw Cradock’s face sink. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘You must’ve done plenty of early starts in your time, when you were in uniform, surely.’

‘Yes, sir, but then we knocked off at two in the afternoon. I can’t see us doing that tomorrow. Can you?’

‘Definitely not, but you’re a young man and fighting fit. And if you need consolation, turn up at Rita’s by half past seven and I’ll treat you to breakfast.’

Cradock’s face brightened visibly. ‘Thanks, guv’nor.’

‘You’re welcome. Now, no word yet on Joan’s fingerprints, I suppose?’

‘No. The Yard said they had a lot of record cards to check but they’d let us know as soon as possible.’

Cradock pulled a chair out behind the desk across the office and sat down.

‘Very well,’ said Jago. ‘But don’t get yourself too comfortable – I want to have a word with Sylvia Parks before she goes off duty.’

The ARP post was in the basement of a derelict house that appeared to be otherwise uninhabited. Jago went down the outside steps at the front, followed by Cradock, and knocked on the half-open door. There was no answer, so he pushed it and peered in. The sole occupant, as far as he could see, was an exhausted-looking middle-aged woman in a dirty coat sitting at a battered table, writing something on a sheet of paper. She glanced up to see who it was, then returned to her writing.

‘Mrs Parks?’ he enquired. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ she sighed. ‘You’re from the town hall and you need to inspect our milk bills – or is it to check we’re using the right forms for our incident reports? Well, you can do what you like, but don’t expect any help from me – I’ve been up all night and now I’m going home.’

‘We’re the police, actually – West Ham CID. I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is Detective Constable Cradock. We’re making enquiries in connection with the body you found at 28 Carpenters Road yesterday morning.’

She put her pen down on the table and stood up.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, I just assumed you were more of those fusspots from the council. They don’t seem to actually do anything except go around inspecting what other people are doing. You’d better come in. How can I help you?’

The two men stepped into the room.

‘We were told by one of our officers at the scene yesterday morning that you’d gone,’ said Jago, ‘and we were hoping you’d return so we could speak to you, but you didn’t. I wonder if you could tell me why that was.’

‘Certainly. The constable said you’d want to speak to me but he didn’t tell me to come back, and I couldn’t hang around waiting for you because I had a report to send in from the post. Then when I eventually got here through all the usual chaos I discovered the phone was dead, so I had to take it all the way to the next post. By the time I’d done that I had to go to work.’

‘I see. You’re not a full-time warden, then?’

‘No, I do two or three nights a week as a volunteer. It’s hard, but we take it in turns to grab a bit of sleep whenever we can between air raids. You get to the point where sleep’s the thing you need most in the world – even more than food. Only trouble is, sometimes you’re so tired you can’t sleep – either that or the things you’ve seen in the raids make it impossible to sleep.’

Her face was streaked with grime from the night’s work, but Jago could still see the signs of strain.

‘Where do you work?’ he asked.

‘At the Co-op – the London Co-operative Society, I suppose I should say. At the head office in Maryland Street. I’m a comptometer operator – it’s skilled work, and I get paid more than I would as a full-time warden, so I can’t afford to give it up. Besides, I need to be sure I’ve got a job when all this ends. I’m a widow.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, well, it’s a long time ago now.’

‘Not a result of the war?’

‘No, at least not this one – it was the last one, which you look old enough to remember.’

Jago nodded, still studying her face.

‘There’s nothing exceptional about my story,’ she said. ‘Robbie and