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

shall certainly be asking Mr Conway whether it was anything to do with him next time we see him, but for now I’m thinking more about this business of prostitution. As I said, I think we’ve got it wrong – or rather, I’ve got it wrong. Judging by what Superintendent Oates said, it seems clear that Joan can’t have been murdered by the Soho Strangler, because there was no such person – it was just an idea the press latched on to and made a meal of it.’

‘But you said he thought it could be a crime of imitation, sir. So it could be someone who didn’t do those other murders but who still wanted to kill a prostitute.’

‘Yes, but that’s the point. I’ve been considering the possibility that she was murdered because she was involved in prostitution, but I think I was barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Does it make any difference?’

‘You mean whether she was on the game or not? In one sense no, I don’t think it does. She’s a murder victim, and we’d investigate it the same whether she was a prostitute or not. It just means I don’t think we need to spend too much time and energy trying to see a link that isn’t there. I don’t think that’s the reason why she was murdered.’

‘But that puts us back to square one, doesn’t it? I mean, she could’ve been murdered by anyone, for any reason under the sun.’

‘Yes, that’s about the measure of it, I think. We need to keep an open mind and broaden our horizons.’

They arrived at the police station and went round to the yard at the back, where Jago had left his car. The Riley Lynx was gleaming attractively in the sunlight.

‘Hop in,’ he said to Cradock. ‘We’re going to see a man about some rings.’

‘You mean the pawnbroker?’

‘Exactly.’

Jago slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, and they moved off in the direction of Manor Road.

‘So what is it we’re looking for?’ Cradock asked as Jago steered the car deftly into the middle of the road. Cradock glanced to the side and saw that they were avoiding a bomb crater in West Ham Lane that had been temporarily, and unevenly, filled in with rubble – which itself had no doubt been conveniently provided at the scene by the same high-explosive bomb.

‘What Audrey said – a narrow gold wedding ring and an engagement ring set with a small square emerald.’

‘Sorry, sir, I realise I should know this, but what colour’s an emerald?’

‘Ask any Irishman.’

‘Sir?’

‘The Emerald Isle – it’s green, the colour of Ireland.’

‘Oh, yes, I see. I don’t know much about engagement rings.’

‘One day, Peter.’

They drove on in silence to Manor Road, Cradock hoping they’d find the pawnbroker’s soon so he could avoid having to delve deeper into the question of engagement rings with his boss. To his relief he spotted the traditional sign of three golden balls hanging above a shop ahead of them on the street, and Jago slowed the car to a halt outside the small and rather dingy premises.

The sign over the door indicated that the shop belonged to one William Horncastle, or perhaps had once done so in the past, and the word ‘pawnbroker’ was painted alongside it. A notice in the window promised ‘liberal advances’. As they pushed the door open it set a bell ringing, and a man emerged immediately from a doorway behind the counter.

‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said, with a deference that seemed too oily to be sincere. ‘How can I be of assistance?’

‘Mr Horncastle?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is Detective Constable Cradock, from West Ham CID.’

‘I see. Come to check my licence, have you? I’ve got it right here if you want to see it. Everything’s strictly above board here, you know – no shady business.’

‘No, I don’t need to see your licence. I want to know what you can tell me about a couple of rings you’ve got in your window.’

‘Certainly. Which ones?’

‘A plain gold wedding ring and an engagement ring with a small square green stone.’

The pawnbroker came out from behind his counter and reached into the window to remove a tray holding the rings.

‘These ones?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Jago. ‘A green stone’s an emerald, isn’t it?’ he added, pointing to the glittering square set into the engagement ring.

The pawnbroker picked up the ring and turned it round in the light.

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, but not quite. An emerald is a green stone, but not all green stones are emeralds, as you might say. What we’ve got here is a green stone all right, but if that’s an emerald, I’m a Dutchman.’ He placed the ring back on the tray. ‘It’s glass.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘It’s got facets. A real emerald’s quite hard, so the facets don’t wear. If you get one like this, with worn facets, it’s likely to be glass. I haven’t bothered to get it checked, but I reckon I’m right, so I only gave him fifteen bob for it, plus a quid for the wedding ring. He seemed happy with that, and off he went.’

‘When was this?’

‘Just yesterday.’

‘Did you satisfy yourself that they weren’t stolen?’

Horncastle laughed. ‘Pawnbrokers Act 1872? Yes, Inspector, I know my responsibilities, and I’ve studied that very carefully. I can assure you that if I’d suspected they were stolen I’d have handed him over to one of your constables. I’ve done that a good few times before now. You get to know the types. You can read their faces. But in this case it was a local – lives just round the corner. He’s been in before.’

‘What’s his name?’

The pawnbroker thought, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, I can’t quite recall at the moment. It’ll be in the pledge book, though.’

He reached under the counter and produced a large leather-bound journal, then leafed through the pages and turned the book round for Jago to read. The page was laid out in nine columns, all completed in a neat copperplate