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

‘Thank you, Mr Evans. My colleague here will see to that.’

Jago opened the front door with a handkerchief over his fingers and let the fireman out. Evans looked back over his shoulder with a hesitant expression, as if he were about to say something, but seemed to think better of it and went on his way.

Jago and Cradock went back to the kitchen. It was almost empty, with just a table and a couple of upright chairs for furniture. The table was bare, save for a single plate bearing the remains of a portion of beans on toast, with a knife and fork propped on its edge, and beside it a glass half full of water.

‘It’s like the Marie Celeste,’ said Cradock.

‘Except we’ve found one more body than they did. Check those cupboards – see if we can find out anything more about her.’

Cradock searched while Jago looked in the drawers.

‘Not a thing, sir,’ said Cradock when he’d finished. ‘There’s nothing here.’

‘Nor in the drawers,’ said Jago. ‘Curious.’

They moved to the bedroom. Jago checked that the blackout curtains were in place, then switched on the light. The room was furnished sparsely: just a bed, a single wardrobe and an easy chair, all looking as if they’d seen better days, and a threadbare red-and-black carpet of indeterminate pattern that covered three-quarters of the floor. In one corner stood the gas and electricity meters, both thick with dust. The walls were bare, except for a crucifix.

The bed was a double, covered in a green counterpane, with two pillows in pillowcases that had once been white but now looked past their useful life. Cradock moved to the far side of it and noticed a light wheel-back chair lying on its side on the floor, with a woman’s stocking crumpled beneath it.

‘Sign of a struggle, do you think, sir?’ he said.

‘Possibly,’ said Jago. ‘That stocking looks the same as the one round that poor woman’s neck – the other half of the pair, I’d say. Take it with us.’

While Cradock picked up the stocking, Jago moved to the wardrobe and opened the door.

‘Only women’s things in here,’ he said across the room. ‘That would suggest she lived on her own. And I’m no expert on women’s clothes, but these look quite smart – fancy dresses and the like. Not the kind of things she was wearing when we saw her.’

‘Maybe she was a party girl – or maybe just had to dress smart for work and was off duty when she was killed,’ Cradock replied. ‘Hang on, there’s a handbag on the floor over here.’ He picked it up and tipped the contents onto the bed.

‘There’s a purse,’ he reported. ‘Money still in it, but not much. And here – that’s handy. An identity card. It says her name’s Joan Lewis.’

‘Good,’ said Jago. ‘At least we know who she was now, although it would’ve been helpful to know whether she was a miss or a missus. I don’t know why the government didn’t include marital status on those blessed cards. All the money they must’ve spent on them and then they leave that out.’

‘This is a bit funny, though.’

‘What is?’

‘Well, we’re at 28 Carpenters Road, but that’s not what she’s got on her card. It says 166 Carnarvon Road. Looks like she didn’t live here. But what was she doing here if she didn’t, and with clothes in the wardrobe?’

‘Interesting. We’ll need to check the other address.’

Cradock put the items back into the handbag and shut it. He stepped back from the bed and looked down at the floor: something had caught his eye. He crouched down and pulled it out from under the bed.

‘That’s odd too, sir. Funny thing to find in a young lady’s bedroom, I mean.’

He held it up so that Jago could see. It was a round navy blue cap encircled by a black ribbon bearing the letters ‘HMS’.

‘So, the navy’s here, eh, sir?’ he said with a grin. ‘That’s what they said when they rescued those prisoners in Norway, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, very amusing,’ said Jago. ‘All very well when it was Jolly Jack Tar seizing the Altmark, but what’s this tar been doing in Carpenters Road, Stratford?’

‘Hang on, there’s a name stamped inside – it says E. G. Sullivan. Must be a careless fellow to leave his cap behind. Friend of Joan’s, do you think, sir?’

‘Maybe – or a relative, or even someone she didn’t know. All we know is he’s in the navy, and it’s a rating’s cap, so he’s not an officer.’

‘Could it be significant?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, but if he left it here Sunday night it could be very significant.’

‘Should we try to find him, though?’

‘Yes. You’ll have to ask the navy. Make some enquiries later – find out where he’s stationed. If he’s at sea we won’t be talking to him for some time, but it could be he’s shore-based. And bring that cap and the handbag back to the station with you.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘That’ll do, Peter.’

‘Sorry, sir. Will do.’

‘If it turns out he’s not at sea and he left it here recently, we’ll have to find out what he was doing here, and why this Joan Lewis was entertaining a sailor.’

‘Well, they do say all the nice girls love a sailor.’

‘Yes, but the question is, was our Joan a nice girl?’

CHAPTER FOUR

Jago and Cradock let themselves out through the front door and emerged into Carpenters Road. It was almost six o’clock, and soon the sun would be rising. The fire was close to extinction, and only one AFS crew could still be seen, playing water onto a heap of smouldering timber wreckage.

‘Where’s that ARP warden got to?’ said Jago.

‘Caught up in some other emergency on her way to the post, perhaps?’ said Cradock.

‘Possibly, but we can’t wait for her. I want to see what Dr Anderson’s found out. We’ll take the car back to the station, then stroll up to the hospital.’

They set