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

‘Right. Yes, of course.’ His voice was subdued. ‘I suppose this is to do with Joan, is it?’

‘That’s right. You’re aware of what’s happened?’

‘Yes, my wife told me yesterday – that’s Elsie. You’ve met her, haven’t you? She’d heard from her mother while I was here at work.’

Marwell took a packet of Capstan from his pocket and put a cigarette in his mouth. He struck a match to light it, but it went out. He struck another and managed to get the cigarette lighted. He tossed the spent matches away, his hand shaking slightly. He looked up at Jago.

‘Forgive me, Inspector,’ he said, extending the packet of cigarettes towards him. ‘I wasn’t thinking. Would you like one?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Jago.

Marwell offered one to Cradock, who shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he continued. ‘You must think I’m a nervous wreck. It’s just the thought of poor Joan …’ His voice tailed off for a moment. ‘Really, it’s the last thing I’d have imagined happening. I mean, people are getting killed in air raids every day – it seems like it’s part of normal life now. But not something like this. My wife told me Joan had been strangled.’ He gave a shudder. ‘It’s unthinkable.’

‘How did you get on with Joan?’

‘She was a nice girl. I can’t say I knew her particularly well. I mean, your wife’s brother’s wife – it’s one of those relationships we don’t even have a word for.’

‘What were your movements on Sunday evening?’

‘Nothing special. It was my day off, so I was just generally catching up on odd jobs at home – mending my bike, things like that. I was due back on fire-watching duty Sunday night, so I was trying not to do anything too tiring in the daytime. Then in the evening I was at home, apart from going out to walk Elsie home from the pub. She gets a bit nervous with all these air raids, you see.’

‘Your wife tells us that you passed a sailor lying on the street on your way home. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘Do you remember what time it was?’

‘Well, we left the pub at about half past eight, so it must have been just a few minutes after that.’

‘And do you remember where this was?’

‘Yes, it was on the corner of Martin Street. You know it? Down between Station Street and Angel Lane. He was lying in a shop doorway.’

‘And later in the evening you came here for your fire-watching duty?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did that take you past Martin Street again?’

‘Yes, it did.’

‘Did you notice whether the sailor was still there?’

‘No, he’d gone.’

‘Can you remember what time that was?’

‘Well, my shift started at ten o’clock and I was there on time, so I imagine it would have been about a quarter to ten, ten to ten, something like that.’

‘When we spoke to your wife she told us the sailor was wearing his cap when you saw him on your way home. Is that correct?’

‘Sorry, I don’t recall. My wife’s better at remembering details than I am – doesn’t miss much, you know, our Elsie. She’s very reliable in that respect. Very thorough.’

‘Indeed. Well, thank you anyway, Mr Marwell. That’s all we need to know at the moment.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

At a quarter past seven on Wednesday morning Jago walked slowly down West Ham Lane towards Rita’s cafe, lost in thought. He’d set off early to have time to think, but also to ensure that he’d arrive before Dorothy and be there to welcome her. He felt a strange warmth at the prospect of seeing her again. His brief visit with her to the Cenotaph on Monday evening had stirred memories of men long since lost to death, their faces, laughter and tears now decayed to dust, but she was different – so alive, so brightly present here and now in his life. He’d made up his mind not to live in the past, and she was the one who’d provoked him to break free of it. He wanted to be part of her world, not just to trudge through life in a bleak solitude and then slip away unnoticed.

In the midst of these thoughts he became aware of cheery whistling coming from behind him. He recognised the tune – it was ‘Oh, Johnny, Oh’, an American song from the end of the last war that had become popular all over again. The only person likely to be whistling on the street at this time of the morning was the milkman, and he turned round expecting to see a man – or these days possibly a woman – with a milk float and horse. What he saw, in fact, was the approaching figure of Cradock, walking briskly to catch up with him.

‘Morning, guv’nor,’ said the young detective constable, with a broad smile.

‘You’re looking very bright and breezy today,’ said Jago. ‘What’s happened?’

‘An early start, sir. You know – up with the lark, catch the best of the day.’

‘Ah, I see. So you managed to get out of bed in time to catch Tom Gracewell.’

‘That’s right, sir. And I found out who was on the beat in Martin Street on Sunday evening. It was Ted Watson, and he was on early turn today, so I spoke to him too.’

‘Good. What did he say?’

‘Ted Watson, sir?’

‘Yes. Did he confirm speaking to our sailor?’

‘Yes. He said he found him lying in the shop doorway looking asleep and smelling of drink. He said it’s not the first time he’s come across men in uniform in that sort of state, but he reckons it’s because now there’s conscription they’re getting all sorts of undesirables in the forces.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve known Ted Watson for years – he’s an old-timer.’

‘Yes, a bit quaint, really, I thought. Very serious in the way he talked. He had the Police Code off pat – you know, that bit where it says we should constantly endeavour to maintain the most friendly feeling with soldiers and sailors. He said it