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

‘No, sir, really – he just never came out.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Back at the car, Jago checked his watch. DDI Soper had instructed him to report at six o’clock sharp to brief him on the progress of the case. Probably just so Soper could keep the area superintendent off his back, he imagined, but he needed to keep an eye on his time this afternoon. Cradock’s mention of what he thought he’d observed on Sunday evening had put him in mind of the break-in at the Regal again. Blowing a safe open with gelignite was undoubtedly a serious offence, but even so, it was only money they’d taken, not a life: he needed to keep his main focus on Joan’s murder. And something was niggling him.

‘Peter,’ he said.

‘Yes, guv’nor,’ said Cradock, keen to please.

‘That green outfit – the tunic and what have you. We carted that suitcase halfway round the borough before Joan’s friend Carol finally confirmed that it was Richard’s – or at least that Joan had said it was.’

Cradock briefly considered correcting his boss on the matter of who had done the carting, but instead simply said, ‘Yes.’

‘And Beryl said Joan asked her to look after it because she didn’t want Audrey to find it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, when we showed it to Bert Wilson, he said it was what he and Richard both used to wear when they were boys in that Kibbo Kift thing. And yet when we asked Richard’s own sister, she said she’d never seen it.’

‘I see what you mean, sir. Elsie’s only a couple of years younger than Richard, so she must’ve seen him dressed up for his meetings or whatever when they were kids.’

‘Exactly. I think she knows more than she’s told us, and I want to know what it is. We need to pay her a visit.’

‘You haven’t forgotten what the pawnbroker said, have you, sir? You said we need to talk to Evans about those rings.’

‘Oh, yes, the blasted rings. No, I hadn’t forgotten. I suppose we’d better see the man.’

They found Evans at home, in his shirtsleeves and wearing a pair of worn-out slippers. He appeared not to have shaved. When he opened the door to Jago and Cradock he welcomed them in, but he sounded preoccupied.

He showed them through to the kitchen, where he edged past Jago to remove a newspaper from one of the chairs.

‘Have a seat, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? My wife’s not here, but I think I still know how to work a kettle.’

It sounded like an attempt at a joke, but he delivered it in a voice that was somehow morose, not like his breezy manner the last time they’d seen him. ‘Forlorn’ was the word that crossed Jago’s mind.

‘Yes, please,’ said Jago. ‘Is your wife well?’

‘Oh, yes, fit as a fiddle,’ said Evans. He found the tea caddy and dropped a couple of spoonfuls into the pot sitting on top of the range, then poured in boiling water and left it to brew. ‘But like I said before, she goes out to her sister Cissie in Epping for the night, on account of the bombing. She went off a bit early today – the trains are playing up again. But it’s terrible, isn’t it? There’s no such thing as a front line any more – it’s all happening right here. To think a woman can’t spend the night in her own home because of this war. It’s not like it was in the old days, when the men did the fighting and the women stayed safe at home.’

‘Yes,’ said Jago. ‘I remember what Mr Chamberlain said last year, when he was still prime minister. He said if we do end up in a war, even if we’re not all in the firing line we may all well be in the line of fire. He might not’ve been right about everything, but he certainly got that right, didn’t he? It makes no difference whether you’re a soldier or a shop girl when the sirens go.’

‘It’s wicked, that’s what it is,’ said Evans. ‘I miss my Amy when she goes out there, and I wish she didn’t have to, but it puts my mind at rest to know she’s away from the bombing at night. I can be thankful for that, at least.’

He poured three mugs of tea and handed one to each of his visitors. He failed to offer them sugar, but Jago didn’t ask.

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Inspector,’ he continued. ‘I’m a bit down in the dumps. Sometimes when Amy’s not here and I’m on my own, things get on top of me. It’s not just her I miss, it’s everything. We have a word for it in Welsh. We call it hiraeth – there’s no English word for it. It’s a bit like homesickness, but it’s more than that. It’s what I feel when I get to thinking about Wales, and the past, and the way things used to be. That’s when I start wanting to be back there.’

‘I’m told Wales is very beautiful.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Evans. ‘But not all of it, mind. When I left school I worked in the quarry, and you couldn’t call that beautiful.’

‘Are you still in touch with people from those days?’

‘With some, yes. Why do you ask?’

‘It was just what you said about wanting to be back there. And when you went to work in the munitions factory – that was in Wales too?’

‘Yes, it was – during the Great War.’ His lips began to twitch into a faint smile, but in a moment it was gone. ‘You’d have thought all those years in the quarry digging holes in the ground while the earth exploded behind me would’ve suited me to being a soldier, but they didn’t seem to need me. It was hard work, I can tell you, but at least I wasn’t underground. Most people seem to think if you’re Welsh you spend all your time either coal mining