A Capital Crime (28 page)

‘Both parents are dead, according to the sister, and there aren’t any other relatives,’ said Stratton, ‘so that’s out. Let’s get back to the station.’

As they arrived, Sergeant Ballard was escorting a slight, fair girl of about eighteen out of the door. ‘Be right with you, sir,’ he
murmured as they passed. The girl detained him for a moment, talking earnestly, a look of anxious entreaty on her face, before he caught up with them. ‘Any luck, sir?’

‘Not a dicky bird. I don’t suppose that she,’ Stratton waved a hand in the direction of the departed girl, ‘had any information, did she?’

‘Not about Iris Manning, sir. She came in to report another missing girl. Brought this with her.’ Ballard produced a small photograph of the head and shoulders of a woman who was both younger than Iris Manning, and, with her big almond-shaped eyes and full lips, considerably more attractive. ‘Kathleen McKinnon. Gone missing, according to her chum. Brown hair and eyes, about five foot three.’

‘Tom, is she?’ asked Stratton. Ballard nodded. ‘Can’t say I recognise her,’ said Stratton, and Harris’s shake of the head told him that she didn’t, either. ‘Must be new.’

‘She is, sir. Only been here a few weeks.’

‘Well, she’s obviously got a friend, which is more than you can say for poor Iris.’

‘They often work together, sir. That’s why she came in. I asked if she could be sure McKinnon hadn’t gone off for a holiday or to visit relatives – got a kiddie up in Scotland, apparently, her mother looks after it – but she said no, they’d had an appointment with some chap who wanted to photograph them together, and she never turned up. That was three days ago, and she’s not seen her since. Told me they usually meet up for a drink before they start, but she didn’t appear, and she hadn’t said anything about going away.’

‘Let’s just hope there’s not a spate of them,’ said Stratton gloomily. ‘Lamb’ll go spare.’ With the Coronation procession passing so near their manor, the DCI was determined to eradicate all vestiges of crime and vice from the streets surrounding Piccadilly Circus, so that the huge influx of people expected could enjoy their day’s outing without being propositioned or having their pockets picked.
Stratton, who, like most of the station, viewed Piccadilly Circus as the centre of an Inferno-like series of concentric circles, each with a denser and more dangerous concentration of corruption, vice and crime, had remarked after the pep-talk that he hoped it would keep fine for him.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time we’ve had someone killing tarts, sir,’ said Ballard.

‘That’s true. Did you ask this …’

‘Joan Carter, sir.’

‘Did you ask her if she knew Iris?’

‘Said she’d never heard of her. Sorry, sir.’

‘And the chap with the camera?’

‘Told her his name was Charlie, but she didn’t have an address. They met him in the Red Lion, and they’d made an arrangement to see him there again. She said he was going to take them off somewhere to do the pictures.’

‘Try asking in the pub. Perhaps McKinnon met him on her own.’

‘Yes, sir. This is Miss Carter’s address, and that’s McKinnon’s – round the corner from each other.’

Glancing at them, Stratton recognised the streets. More sagging rows of houses chopped up into dismal single rooms, with a pervasive atmosphere of damp, mould and rot. If failure had a smell, Stratton thought, that was it: ambitions and desires unfulfilled and, in the case of these girls, lives spoiled and broken before they’d got properly started. All of them somebody’s daughter … He thought of Monica – lively, happy, sensible – and shuddered inwardly. ‘Come on,’ he said to Policewoman Harris. ‘Let’s take a look.’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

They’d moved twice in the past few months, each time to cheaper and poorer accommodation, and this flat was … A refuge, anyway, thought Diana. A shabby, threadbare cocoon where she could hide away until she could think straight about what to do next. But not now. In order to save money, she’d walked from Victoria station, over a mile, and she was exhausted, too tired even to scratch up a meal from whatever remained in the cupboard. All she wanted was to lie down. Dragging herself up the stairs, she didn’t think she’d ever been so glad to be home.

There was a note pinned to the door. Diana’s heart sank as she recognised her landlady’s handwriting.
Dear Mrs Carleton, I have taken your belongings in place of the rent which you have not paid for seven weeks …

Grimacing, she crumpled up the paper and pushed her key into the lock. She’d find the money somehow, and redeem their things, but, right at the moment, she just wanted to get inside, away from everything. She turned the key, and jiggled it, but the door remained firmly closed. After a couple of minutes’ desperate pushing and rattling, she gave up and, leaning against the wall, closed her eyes. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, she thought. Random images from the past flickered behind her eyelids: the morning of her wedding to Guy, bright-faced with anticipation in the mirror while the maid dressed her hair; lying in Claude’s arms on the mattress beneath the improvised shelter in his flat during an air-raid; her
mother-in-law’s venomous face; the despoiled desolation of her childhood home; running through Green Park with James. Shaking her head in a sort of hopeless wonder at her situation, she remembered James’s words about walking into the sea. I could go down to the river now, she thought; it isn’t far. What difference would it make?

Wearily, clutching the banister, she went back downstairs and out into the street. There was no point trying to talk Mrs Pritchard into letting her back in, and anyway, she couldn’t face it. She walked down the road to the corner. It was twilight, and she stood, swaying slightly on her feet, just outside the spill of light from the open door of the pub. From inside she could hear laughter and the clink of glasses as the evening’s business got under way. All down the street, people coming home from work were turning in to their front doors. Lights were being turned on and curtains drawn against the gloom. They’ll soon be having supper, Diana thought, settling down for the evening. Hats and coats will be removed, slippers will replace shoes. The wireless and the paper. The children, the cat, the dog. Life carrying on.

Was that what she wanted, life to carry on? If you wanted something badly enough, you were supposed to get it, weren’t you? Perhaps she hadn’t wanted James to stop drinking badly enough. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted it himself. Or perhaps it didn’t work like that after all.

The river was to her left. Only a short walk … She’d be able to manage it. If she turned right instead, she would eventually, after several miles – provided she didn’t get lost on the way – arrive at Lally and Jock’s house. Overwhelmed by the thought of the distance, all the streets, squares, road-crossings, turnings off, the sheer effort of placing one foot in front of another, she took a few, faltering steps to her left. As she did so, a man emerged from the shadows by the wall of the pub, fumbling at his fly buttons, and grinned at her. For a moment, their eyes met. Then, with an impetus born of pure disgust, both with him and with herself, she turned right and began the long walk to Albemarle Street.

Chapter Forty

By the time she reached Piccadilly, Diana, though light-headed with tiredness, felt a new clarity of purpose. She’d decided not to die, hadn’t she? Now, with the cold rationality of a chess player, she must calculate her next move. One step at a time. The first was to smarten herself up a bit. Bad enough to present herself on Lally’s doorstep without warning, which, without even the tuppence needed for a telephone call, was what she’d have to do. She did, however, have one penny left, and that could be spent smartening herself up in the Ladies’ at Piccadilly Circus. Clutching it, she marched down the stairs to the Underground.

The attendant, an elderly crone with a long nose and a flat chest, was chatting, mop in hand, to a couple of heavily made-up women, their conversation punctuated by the sound of dripping. Diana walked to the furthest basin and stared at herself in the mirror above it. The harsh electric light and white tiled walls gave her face a pallid, sickly look, and she must have been crying without being aware of it, because her eyes were pink-rimmed and there were the tracks of tears down her cheeks. Her hair, which she hadn’t touched since her walk on the beach, was dishevelled. I look like a madwoman, she thought.

She was rummaging in her bag for a comb to repair the damage when a rasping Cockney voice said, ‘Hello, dear.’ Turning, she saw that the attendant, footsteps muffled by carpet slippers, had come over and was smiling encouragingly. ‘New here, are you?’

‘New?’

The two women eyed her from across the room. They didn’t look half as friendly as the attendant, and it took her a moment to realise why. Her stomach contracted in fear, and she heard herself give a jittery little laugh as she turned back to the basin.

‘You going to be sick?’ asked the attendant, not so welcoming now. ‘’Cos if you are, you can go outside and do it.’

‘No …’ Diana found her comb and held it up. ‘Just tidying my hair.’

‘Been to a party, have you?’ asked one of the women. The tone was menacing.

Feverishly, Diana began to smooth her hair. Both women were advancing towards her now. Unable to bolt, she carried on combing mechanically, not paying attention to what she was doing, staring into the mirror and seeing only the two hard slabs of their faces and the red gashes of their mouths, one on either side of her own.

‘Somewhere nice, was it?’

‘I haven’t been to a party.’

The woman looked her up and down. ‘Going to one, are you?’

‘No …’

‘You’ve torn your stocking,’ said the other.

Had she? ‘Oh … I didn’t know.’

‘I didn’t know,’ repeated the woman in mocking imitation. She had a smear of lipstick, like blood, on her top teeth.

‘Nice handbag,’ said the other. Diana shrank from her, clutching the straps tightly. The woman looked down at her shaking hands and said, ‘You haven’t told us where you’re off to.’

‘Nowhere,’ said Diana, backing away. ‘A friend …’

‘Oh, a
friend
. Give you that, did he?’ The woman took a quick step towards her and clamped a hand on her arm, gripping it so that Diana could feel the nails through her fur coat. ‘You want to watch yourself,’ she said.

Diana felt as though she might stop breathing at any moment.
The room was beginning to spin. She looked round for the attendant, but the old woman had shuffled away into a corner and was doing something with a pail. ‘Yes …’ she heard herself say. ‘Please, I’m sorry …’

‘Bitch!’ Diana felt a warm spray of spittle land on her face before the woman released her, shoving her backwards. She tottered for a moment before regaining her balance, then she grabbed her bag and fled, mocking laughter echoing behind her, back up to the surface.

She stopped at the stop of the stairs to catch her breath. Everything around her was moving: traffic, neon signs, blurry bright, dancing in front of her eyes, and streams of people moving purposefully forward, rushing past her. Where were they all going?

She made her way down Piccadilly to Albemarle Street. Everyone seemed to be going in the opposite direction. It was as though she had become invisible – however much she tried to avoid the oncoming crowds, people kept knocking into her, pushing her from side to side so that she struggled to remain upright. Keep going, she told herself. Nearly there … nearly there. And then she was there, standing in front of the Andersons’ front door.

All the windows were pitch dark. What would she do if they weren’t at home? She hadn’t thought of that. There were waiting rooms in railway stations … perhaps she could go there. Or ask a policeman? She had no idea, and without her address book, which must be amongst the belongings purloined by her landlady, she had no idea of anyone else’s address or telephone number either. Heart thumping in her chest, she lifted the heavy brass knocker and brought it down sharply, twice. They must be there, they
must
…

After what seemed like an age she heard footsteps in the hall and Mrs Robinson, looking more monumental than usual and very suspicious, opened the door a couple of inches. Her eyes widened on seeing Diana, and for a moment she did not speak, but stared, taking in her disordered appearance, almost bristling with disapproval. ‘Good evening, Mrs
Carleton
.’ The words were grudging and
Diana’s heart sank. She’d obviously heard about the divorce. People in the film community might be more accepting of – or at least, more used to – people divorcing, but Mrs Robinson, upright and cantilevered in her stiff black frock, was a true Victorian. She hadn’t seemed to like Diana much before, but now …

For a second, Diana thought the door was going to be slammed in her face, and involuntarily extended an arm to keep it open. ‘Good evening, Mrs Robinson.’

‘Mrs Anderson’s not here at present,’ said Mrs Robinson. ‘She didn’t say she was expecting any visitors.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Diana humbly. ‘She wasn’t expecting me.’ She added, as casually as she could, ‘May I come in, do you think?’

Mrs Robinson looked her up and down once more, then pursed her lips, as if this request merited careful consideration. ‘Well,’ she said, after a long pause, ‘I don’t know when they’ll be back.’

Abandoning the pretence, Diana said, ‘Please, Mrs Robinson. I need to speak to her.’

There was no light in the housekeeper’s eyes, no flicker of sympathy, but she stepped back to let Diana into the hall. ‘Shall I take your coat?’

Suspecting that the fire wasn’t, and wouldn’t be, lit, Diana said, ‘I think I’ll keep it on, thank you.’

Once in the sitting room, Diana sank into an armchair and inspected her legs. The woman in the toilet had been right – one stocking was laddered, badly. Mrs Robinson, who’d followed her, stood mute and unwelcoming in the middle of the room. Seeing that she was to be offered nothing, Diana said, ‘Do you think I might have some brandy?’

Expressionless, but still managing to radiate hostility, Mrs Robinson stalked over to the drinks tray and poured a very small amount of brandy, scarcely more than a trickle, into a glass. Handing it to Diana, she left the room quickly, as if to remain might contaminate her in some indefinable way.