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

wool when there was this almighty bang behind the house, half the ceiling fell in on me, and I could see stars where the roof should’ve been. I knew what must’ve happened. I got down the stairs as quick as I could and out the back door, and then I saw it. The bomb had landed right on our Anderson shelter. There was nothing left. Nothing. She’s not there any more. We hadn’t even said goodbye.’ His voice trailed away into a quiet sob.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Evans,’ said Jago.

Evans nodded his thanks.

‘Have you got somewhere to go?’ Jago asked. ‘You can’t stay in your house if it’s got no roof.’

‘The station officer’s been round already,’ Evans replied, his voice flat. ‘Our fire station’s only just down the road and it’s got a dormitory, so he said I can stay there until I get myself sorted out.’

He looked up, as if he’d just remembered who his visitors were.

‘But that’s not why you came here, is it?’ he said sadly. ‘You were going to ask my Amy about those rings, weren’t you?’

‘I was,’ Jago replied.

‘Well, I don’t care any more. I don’t care about anything. You know I wasn’t telling the truth, don’t you, about being on duty last night. How come my Amy said she was going to stay at home with me because I could look after her all night if I was on duty? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’

Jago nodded.

‘Well, I was lying, wasn’t I? I said I was going to be on duty just to get you off my back long enough for me to tell Amy what to say. She’s always been a better person than me. I didn’t deserve her, and I was going to make her lie for me.’

Evans stood up, wrapping his coat round himself. He looked Jago in the eye.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Those rings belonged to that woman who was murdered in her flat. She didn’t need them any more, and I did. Life doesn’t get any cheaper just because one day you get a job as a fireman – a rasher of bacon costs the same, and you still have to find the rent. I know what I did was wrong, but we were in a bit of a sticky patch moneywise, and when I saw those rings it was just a temptation I couldn’t resist. I thought no one would know, and we’d get a bit of cash to tide us over. I reckoned if I didn’t sell them but just pawned them, I’d be able to get them back, and then perhaps I could’ve returned them to that poor woman’s family, if she had one. But now I suppose I’ll never know. Does this mean I’ll go to prison, Inspector? I’ve never been in trouble before.’

‘That’s out of my hands, Mr Evans. If you’ve been a man of good character up to now, you must hope the court will take that into consideration. The only thing you need to know right now is you’re under arrest.’

Jago heard his own words as though they were spoken by someone else, but in his stomach he felt something like a shard of ice biting into him. It was a deep, cold anger at the death of this woman Amy Evans. Whether it was directed at the man who’d dropped the bomb from the sky, the dictator who’d commanded the action, the God who’d allowed it to happen, or the universe for being a place where such things occurred, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was the intense disgust that gripped him, the sense of futility that he’d known as a young man in the trenches. He wanted to scream his rage, but he remained outwardly silent, emotionless. He was certain of only one thing. The law must take its course in respect of Hosea Evans, but the real crime was not a weak man’s theft of a dead woman’s rings. It was the pointless killing of a frightened woman who wanted to stay by her husband.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

With Evans locked in a cell at West Ham police station, it was time to pursue Martin Sullivan. Jago didn’t know what kind of job the young man did, if indeed he had one, nor why he seemed not yet to have been caught up in the net of conscription to the armed forces, so he and Cradock set off for the flat in Windmill Lane, hoping to find him at home. This time they took the car: Jago had a feeling that this was going to be a busy day.

They arrived at the flat, and Jago’s sharp rap of the door knocker brought an immediate response. It was George Sullivan who opened the door, dressed in what appeared to be the same clothes as he’d been wearing the last time they’d seen him.

‘Oh, it’s you lot again,’ he said, looking them up and down. His voice was sullen. ‘What do you want this time?’

‘I’d like to have a word with your son Martin, Mr Sullivan. Is he in?’

Sullivan jerked one thumb over his shoulder. ‘Up there.’

He stood aside so that Jago and Cradock could come in. They climbed the stairs, followed by the rhythmic stamp of Sullivan’s boots on the wooden treads. At the top they went into a small living room where Martin Sullivan sat reading a newspaper. He glanced at them and went back to his reading.

‘What do you want to know?’ said Sullivan senior.

‘What makes you think there’s something I want to know?’ said Jago.

‘Don’t make me laugh. Your sort never comes round just to pass the time of day.’

Jago turned his attention to the son. ‘Mr Sullivan, can you tell me where you were on Sunday evening?’

Martin Sullivan put his paper down, but had barely opened his mouth before his father spoke.

‘He was here, with me.’

‘The whole evening?’

George Sullivan looked at his son, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

‘No, not all the time. Martin and Ernie