Read Stratton's War for Free Online Page B

last the day decided to wait. Instead, he sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin on his fists, wondering why he’d never told Mabel about the man in the cinema.

    Mabel, as good a listener as she was a talker, had invited confidences, and he’d told her a great deal about himself, but not about that first initiation in the smoky, anonymous darkness. Mabel wouldn’t have judged him for it. The idea of judgement made him wonder whether she, herself, wasn’t now being weighed against some heavenly ideal. What would she say? Some things about her he knew: marriage to Cecil Duke, who’d directed her in The Dancing Duchess and Let’s All Be Gay! , her dramatic escape from the house fire that had killed him, and the operations she’d had to try and re-build the lids on her ruined left eye. But there were other things that remained mysterious: the way she always looked out of the window before leaving the house, the sleepless nights when she got up and walked about the flat, the way she’d shut herself in her room for hours at a time (‘thinking, dear, that’s all’). He hadn’t pried, just accepted. But her death? He couldn’t accept that. No warning, no note, just, well, just that. Death. Gone. Finished. Not there anymore. And with no explanation. It didn’t make sense.

     
    He got through the rest of the day in a sort of self-protective trance and walked home to Conway Street after the cinema closed. The hall floor and stairwell were covered in newspaper and the house permeated by steam from his landlady’s washing and the odour of her stew - added to, subtracted from, boiled and rehashed throughout the week - which smelled, according to Mabel, like a permanent fart. Joe’s involuntary smile at the memory of this description made him wince as he tiptoed down the passage, not wanting to alert Mrs Cope, who lived on the ground floor. She was, on the whole, a kind woman, but he’d endured several hours of her barely concealed appetite for what she termed ‘the tragedy’ at the weekend, and couldn’t stand any more of it. He placed his foot carefully on the bottom step to make sure it wouldn’t creak, thinking how he just wanted the day to be over.

    It wasn’t. When he reached the top of the stairs, Joe saw that the door to his flat was slightly ajar. He stood on the landing wondering if he’d accidentally forgotten to lock up before he left for work, and then, hearing a noise from within, was about to retreat when the door was flung wide open by a large man. In a blink, Joe took in the thuggish frame that bulged inside the blue serge suit, the five o’clock shadow under the threatening, tilted hat, the badly sutured scar that bisected one cheek, and the meaty whiff of body odour. He spun round and made for the stairs, but the man reached forward, grabbed his arm, and held on to it. All Joe’s attention was riveted on the face - cavernous nostrils choked with black hairs, cracked lips and stale breath - that was an inch away from his own.

    ‘Well, well, well,’ said the man, his voice loud with jovial menace. ‘Home at last. Don’t be shy, come on in.’ As he gestured towards the door, Joe saw that there was another man, smaller, younger - a boy gangster - behind him. ‘We want to talk to you. You see, Mister Vincent,’ - the big man prodded him in the chest with a nicotine stained finger - ‘you’ve got something we want.’

SEVEN

    Stratton stood at one of the urinals in the station’s toilet, gazing at the white tiles in front of him and worrying about Mabel Morgan’s missing teeth. The inquest would be held in a few hours’ time. Ballard would give evidence, and assuming the verdict was suicide, which it undoubtedly would be, that would be the end of it. Jenny had remembered Mabel: ‘She was one of Mum’s favourites. Ever so beautiful - great big eyes, a bit like Greta Garbo. What a way to end up, though.’ It didn’t amount to anything, that was the problem - just speculation -