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

‘Was it a business you were collecting debts for?’

‘Sort of. More a person, really.’

‘And what was this person called?’

‘He was, er, Charlie Lewis.’

‘The father of your friend Richard Lewis?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you told us you’d had no contact with Richard since you were fifteen or so. Were you telling us the truth?’

‘Yes, I swear. Straight up. I was desperate for work and I heard there was a bloke looking for a collector. It was only when I went to see him I found out it was Richard’s dad. I remembered him from when we were kids, see, and he always seemed to have a bob or two in those days, so I thought he’d pay all right.’

‘So you’re saying you worked for Richard’s father for two years but never once saw his son, who’d been your childhood friend?’

‘That’s right. Charlie said it was private work. I didn’t sit in an office all day where people like Richard might come in and see me. It was more like doing personal jobs for Charlie. Confidential, you know? Charlie paid to have a phone put in where I lived, and he’d call me and tell me where to go and who to see. It suited me fine – I only had to work when he needed me, and it turned out I was right, he did pay well.’

‘But didn’t you see this as an opportunity to get in touch with your friend?’

‘No. Mr Lewis didn’t want me to. He said I wasn’t to talk to a living soul about my work, and that included his son. It sounded like they didn’t get on. So I didn’t – I couldn’t afford to, could I? Then after two years Charlie died, and there was no more work for me. That’s when I went to work at the Broadway and got to know Joan.’

‘How close to her did you become? As a friend, you said.’

‘Hold on a minute – I know what you’re getting at. Was I sweet on her, you mean? Look, Inspector, I’m not the kind of bloke who sets their sights on other men’s wives, especially when they’re away serving their country.’

‘Of course. But she was the kind of girl you’d have found attractive if she’d been unmarried?’

‘If, yes – but that’s a big if. She was a married woman, and I don’t get involved with married women.’

‘I see.’

‘I hope you do. Now look, I came here to tell you about Conway, not to talk about my past, and I need to get down to the Regal now, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’

He got to his feet and stood facing Jago, as if despite his flash of anger he was still waiting to be dismissed.

‘Yes, by all means, Mr Wilson,’ said Jago. ‘Thank you very much for coming to see us.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Carpenters Road ran the length of a narrow strip of land bounded on its eastern side by the railway and to the west by the Waterworks River. Jago could remember when this, like the other channels that made up the Stratford back rivers, had been a filthy stream choked with rubbish, but after being dredged and widened just a few years before the war started, it was now surprisingly clean. The strip of land itself, however, remained an eyesore, every inch of it buried beneath seventy years of haphazard industrial construction. Now it was a warren of factories, works, chimneys and sheds, its air tainted by what seemed to Jago the smelliest industries imaginable. And as he drove down the road, he could see that the air raids had achieved what he would have thought impossible: added a new layer of disfigurement to its old ugliness.

The Addingtons varnish factory was one of the leading producers of noxious odours, and it was situated at the far end of Carpenters Road. By the time they got there, Jago and Cradock had been assailed by everything from the bitter fumes of paint factories to the sweet, cloying smells of perfume manufacturers. The particular output of Addingtons seemed to fall somewhere between the two.

The factory was a rambling, much-extended building of smoke-blackened brick, standing beside an untidy yard of unknown use. The detectives reported to the gatekeeper’s hut and were asked to wait while Marwell was fetched.

The man who arrived a few minutes later looked in his mid to late twenties and seemed strikingly tall, although Jago wondered whether this was only because he was so thin, like a man stretched beyond his natural height. The legs of his stained overalls, not quite long enough, flapped round the top of his boots, but his arms were muscular. His hands were streaked with what looked like grease.

He glanced from Jago to Cradock and back again, as if uncertain whom he should be addressing. Jago spoke first.

‘Mr Marwell?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Detective Inspector Jago, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. We’d just like a quick word with you.’

‘Of course,’ said Marwell. He looked from one to the other again, and his hand went to the front of his overalls, as if he were worried that one of the buttons on his chest might be undone.

‘Excuse me, Officers,’ he said quickly. ‘I must look a terrible mess, but it’s dirty work here, and I’m just one of the plebs – it’s only the men at the top who wear suits. Still, at least I’m doing my bit for the war effort, not just sitting around making money out of other people’s misfortunes.’

‘Are you thinking of anyone in particular?’

‘No, I just reckon that in times like these there’s plenty of characters who manage to do good business out of a war. If that were me, I’d feel ashamed – I’d rather do some filthy job in a factory for next to nothing but go home with a clear conscience. Like yourselves, I’m sure.’

Jago declined to follow this line of conversation.

‘We won’t take much of your time. I just want to ask you