Authors: Laura Wilson
But it was her own stupid fault, wasn’t it? Going off with Claude like that … After all the resolutions she’d made …
After leaving the Pritchards, she’d simply walked, with no idea of where she was going. Not to Lally and Jock, that was certain – they must hate her too, and with good reason. Dazed, she stared
at the lights across the river until they seemed to blur into a flaring, squirming network of tubes, obliterating everything but themselves. Where was James? Was he out there somewhere, walking aimlessly in the neon maze of central London? James’s welcoming words to her at Ashwood came into her mind:
Welcome to the place where nothing is real
. . . Diana stretched out her legs, trying to ease her aching feet. At least her fur coat would stop her getting
too
cold.
An hour later, chilly and faint with hunger, Diana hauled herself to her feet and went in search of a café. The coins she’d found in her purse would be enough for a cup of tea, at least – and perhaps, if she were lucky, they might stretch to bread and margarine. If only she could get fed and warm, she might be able to form a plan.
After wandering through some backstreets, she came upon an all-night place, lights shining through the steamed-up windows. Peering in, she saw from the rows of caps, mufflers and dirtstiffened jackets that most of the customers were workmen. A solitary woman sat in the corner near the door, dabbing at her face with a grubby shred of powder puff, a limp hat perched forlornly on her head and a mangy glass-eyed fox wreathing her neck. The moment Diana pushed open the door, the painted, rocking-horse eyes locked onto her with an aggressive warning stare. Diana patted her suitcase. ‘I’m not after your business,’ she murmured. ‘Just passing through.’
The woman relaxed, modifying her expression to mild curiosity. She wasn’t the only one – Diana was aware of half a dozen pairs of eyes following her as she selected an empty table and sat down, fixing her gaze on the prices chalked on the blackboard behind the counter. It was better than she’d thought – she had enough for tea and a fruit pie. She ordered and sat waiting, inhaling the fug of cigarette smoke mixed with grease fires from the kitchen, marvelling at her degradation. This was a world away from the previous night at Ciro’s, but that no longer seemed real. Realising
that she’d left Lally’s dress and jewellery at the flat, she was wondering how on earth she could rescue them when a workman with a nose like a prize strawberry put a newspaper down on her table. ‘Here, miss. Have that, if you like. I’m done with it, anyhow.’
‘Thank you.’
It was a copy of the
Telegraph
. Surprised, she looked after him, but he was gone. Perhaps someone had given it to him, she thought. Or perhaps … but who was she to judge?
She
didn’t look as if she ought to be here, did she? At least, she hoped she didn’t, but after that run-in with the two women at Piccadilly Circus, she couldn’t be sure about anything. Looking down at the paper, she thought, there’ll be jobs advertised. Situations Vacant – that was what she needed. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it before? She didn’t need Jock or Lally – she could do it herself. Surely someone at Ashwood would give her a reference, and then … Feverishly, she began leafing through the pages then stopped, abruptly, arrested by the sight of James’s face smiling up at her in smudgy black and white. Instinctively, she smiled back, and then, a second later, she saw the heading:
Obituaries
.
Chapter Fifty-Six
The light penetrated her eyelids. Dazed and blinking, she gasped, ‘Please … don’t—’ Black spots danced in front of her in the gloom, and as her eyes adjusted she could see a solid bulk in front of her – an overcoat, trouser legs. ‘Wake up, miss.’
The voice was brisk and official. Looking up, Diana realised she was facing a policeman’s torch. ‘I … I wasn’t asleep. At least, I don’t think I was.’
Shining the beam away from her face, the policeman asked, in a softer tone, ‘Do you know where you are?’
Shaking her head, Diana put her hand down and felt the cold, hard wood of a bench beneath her palm. How had she got here? She remembered sitting in the café in shocked disbelief, reading James’s obituary again and again, about his achievements, his contribution – no mention of the drinking, of course – and how he’d died after being hit by a car, leaving a wife but no issue.
She
was his wife – why hadn’t anyone told her? Perhaps they hadn’t known where she was … if he’d become separated from his belongings and there was no address …
‘I was in a café,’ she said. ‘And then …’
‘Yes, miss?’
‘I’m not sure. I was walking. I got lost.’
‘You can’t stay here, miss.’
‘I haven’t anywhere to go.’
‘You’ve got to go somewhere, miss.’
Diana shook her head. ‘He’s dead. That’s why he didn’t come back.’
‘Who’s that, miss?’
‘James … My husband. He’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry about that. When did it happen?’
‘I’ve only just found out.’ Diana held up the newspaper. ‘It’s in here. It says he was hit by a car.’
‘In there, is it?’
He’s humouring me, Diana thought. He thinks I’m mad. ‘It’s there,’ she said, holding up the paper and tapping James’s picture. ‘That’s him.’
‘James Carleton, film director,’ the policeman read. ‘That’s your husband, is it?’
‘Was my husband,’ said Diana.
‘I see.’ He didn’t believe her.
‘He
was
.’
‘Of course he was,’ said the policeman, soothingly. Bending down, he took her by the arm. ‘Now, why don’t you come along with me, and we’ll find you a bed for the night.’
Diana allowed herself to be raised to her feet. ‘My suitcase …’
‘I’ve got it, don’t worry.’
Walking was painful – she must have developed blisters – but she hobbled along as best she could.
Waking before dawn, the first thing Diana was aware of was the smell: body odour, stale linen and carbolic. Then the sensation of something itchy next to her cheek: a blanket. She sniffed it, and hastily drew her head away: the rough wool was impregnated with dirt. She wasn’t alone. Somebody was snoring to her left, and from her right there came a series of yelps, muffled and puppyish. Turning on the narrow bed, she felt something soft and silky twist around her waist: my slip, she thought, and reached beneath the blanket – there seemed to be no sheet – to pull it down around the tops of her legs. The next thing she was aware of was the string
tied around her neck. Fingering it in the darkness, she found a metal disc. Recalling an efficient, hospital matron’s voice saying, ‘Fifty-five!’ she thought, this is my number. She’d been sitting in the café, hadn’t she, looking at the paper, and then James was dead, and now … now she didn’t seem to have a name any more, only a number. I ought to be crying, she thought. Why aren’t I crying?
Vaguely, she remembered entering the hostel, the exchange between the woman in the wire-caged cubbyhole in the lobby and the policeman. She’d wondered why the woman, upright and stiff in a suit that looked like a uniform, was in the cage. To protect her? If so, it must be from the people here. A sudden lurch of fear jerked her into a sitting position, and she stared wildly into the unpredictable darkness. As her eyes adjusted, rows of grey humps appeared down the length of the room. In the gloom, they seemed petrified, as though an earthquake had encrusted them with dust or ash and converted them into concrete. The nearest bed was barely three feet away. She couldn’t see the woman’s face, but a wrist and hand, knuckle joints exploded by arthritis, protruded from the blanket.
She’d seen the policeman’s eyebrows telegraph his disbelief to the woman in the cage when she’d given her name as Mrs Carleton, but she was too tired to make a fuss. She’d explained that she’d spent the last of her money in the café, but the policeman must have made it all right because her suitcase was taken from her and she was escorted upstairs to the dormitory. His face, as she’d thanked him, had said it all: she was now, officially, an object of pity.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
… I have examined these and I found entwined in the roots of the philadelphus plant (from Area 3) a cervical vertebra and pieces of skull. There was also a mass of decaying fabric through which the roots were growing freely. From the debris labelled ‘Area 3’ there were found numerous pieces of burnt newspaper which appear to have been cut into strips before burning. Pieces of root similar to the philadelphus root were adhering to this paper. A date ‘9
th
July 1943’ was found on one of the pieces.
In the material labelled ‘Areas 2, 3, 6, 8, 9’ there was found a quantity of rotted cloth. This cloth consists of 7 types of material which can be associated to form the remains of a black artificial silk crepe dress, a black (?dark navy) coat, and possibly a navy blue skirt. The total quantity of clothing recovered represents a moderately extensive area of clothing …
Wondering what the hell ‘moderately extensive’ was supposed to mean, Stratton pushed the Metropolitan Police Laboratory Report away from him and lit a cigarette. The lab had obviously been working round the clock, because there was an enormous pile of notes to be sifted. Stratton, who’d managed no more than a couple of hours’ fitful sleep, stared at them blearily, trying to keep his mind on the job. Images from the nightmare that had woken him, shaking and dripping sweat, at half past five, kept recurring in his mind: Monica and Jenny prone on the dusty floor of Paradise Street; Backhouse, scarlet penis bursting out of his fly like some demonic jack-in-the-box as he pulled his tie over his head and snapped it
taut between his fists; himself, held back by some invisible power, struggling lead-legged, unable to reach them …
Subdued at breakfast, Monica had avoided looking directly at him. The atmosphere was solemn, as if there had been a death in the house, and his daughter’s face was pale, the skin under her eyes the translucent blue of sleeplessness. He’d wondered if he’d shouted out in his dream, and if so, whether she’d heard him. They didn’t speak much over their tea and toast. Monica had given him her bacon, and he’d wondered if this was the onset of the morning sickness he remembered Jenny suffering, but said nothing. Watching her, his helpless feeling had returned, and, when he rose to leave, he’d rubbed her back and said, ‘Chirp up, chicken,’ just as he used to when she was small and something had upset her.
‘You will keep your promise, won’t you, Dad?’
‘Yes, love. Just remember – least said, soonest mended. For the time being, anyway.’ Except, he’d thought as he closed the gate, this couldn’t be mended at all. Catching sight of the bloody man’s name on an Odeon film poster from the top deck of the bus, jeering at him in bright red from beneath Phyllis Calvert and Stewart Granger, he’d had to fight the urge to tear down the stairs and rip the thing out of its frame.
At least, he thought, Lamb wasn’t breathing down his neck. The discoveries at Paradise Street had knocked the wind out of his sails to the extent that he now listened passively when Stratton brought him up to date with the revolting litany of their findings. There’d been a couple of routine exhortations to ‘get on with it, for God’s sake’, but his heart wasn’t in it. Despite the statement he’d issued about the two cases having nothing to do with each other, Stratton knew he didn’t believe it.
Pulling another section of the lab report towards him, he began to read:
I have examined samples of blood taken from all four women, and found that samples 1, 2 and 3
– the women in the alcove, thought Stratton
– all contain carbon monoxide. The sample of blood (2)
– that was Kathleen McKinnon –
also contained alcohol. The amount found was 0.240%. This figure is equivalent to the consumption of 8 pints of beer or 13 fluid ounces of spirits. This figure, however, cannot be entirely relied on owing to the decomposition of the blood.
Stratton whistled. Decomposition or not, the woman must have been blotto, or well on the way to it, when she died. Still, if it meant she hadn’t realised what was happening to her, he supposed it was a blessing.
A small quantity of alcohol was found in the stomach contents of (2), and traces of alcohol in the stomach contents of (3).
That was Iris Manning. Stratton scanned the rest of the page. No traces of drugs found in any of them … An area of seminal staining found on the top of the left stocking from (1) – that was Dwyer – information about laundry marks found on the linen, and at the bottom, a very long list of the contents of the bottles found in the medicine cabinet, which included sleeping pills and phenobarbitone.
Hearing an alarmingly viscid throat-clearing behind him, Stratton turned to see the bulky form of DI Grove. ‘Been to see the furniture bloke, Lorrimer. Says Backhouse told him he was going up to Northampton to look for a job and his wife was staying there with her sister.’
‘He seems to have as much trouble with the truth as Davies,’ said Stratton, tiredly. ‘Judging from this lot,’ he gestured at the pile of statements taken from the Paradise Street residents, ‘everyone got a different story. Two of them said Birmingham – that was for a woman’s operation, apparently – and the rest thought it was Sheffield.’
Perching his substantial bottom on the corner of the desk, Grove gave a sympathetic grimace. ‘Well, Lorrimer gave him twelve pounds for the furniture. Said he wanted fifteen, but most of the stuff was no good. According to him, the last time he saw Mrs Backhouse – February sometime, he reckons – she was in a terrible state of nerves and terrified of her husband.’
Stratton sighed. ‘Isn’t hindsight a wonderful thing? Mind you, we thought she seemed pretty well under his thumb back then.’
‘Yes, well …’ Grove adjusted his backside, sweeping several papers to the floor in the process. ‘The bad news is that he’s been talking to the press.’ Holding up his arm, he extended his thumb and fingers to frame an invisible headline. ‘“Did She Know?”’
‘Well, she certainly didn’t know about the women in the alcove, because she was under the floorboards by the time they got in there.’