The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (love books to read txt) 📕

which it sounds like he isn’t now. But maybe it’s not as simple as that. It may have nothing to do with Joan’s death, but it’s an odd thing all the same – curious.’

Jago turned right into Romford Road, and Cradock followed him. He was about to ask where they were going next when Jago stopped and looked at his watch.

‘Ten to eleven,’ he said. ‘Nearly opening time.’

‘Are we going for a drink, guv’nor?’ he asked, his voice at once hopeful and surprised.

‘Not necessarily, but I do think we should drop in at the Green Man and see who’s behind the bar.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The clock on the saloon bar wall at the Green Man showed six minutes past eleven, soon enough after opening time for only the more committed drinkers to have arrived. The landlord was pulling a pint for a short, elderly customer in a shabby black suit, who handed over his coins and shuffled away, sipping appreciatively from the glass. When he had gone, the landlord cast a knowing eye over the two men who had just entered, and particularly over the cheap-looking suitcase the younger one was carrying.

‘Morning, gents,’ he said. ‘You selling something?’

‘No,’ said Jago, ‘we’re the police. Are you the landlord?’

‘Er, yes, I am, as it happens. And before you start, I was just about to say I don’t want any black-market stuff going on in here. This is a respectable public house, you know.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Jago, quite certain that the conversation would have taken a different direction if the man hadn’t been entertaining two members of the Metropolitan Police. ‘I understand you have a barmaid called Elsie. Is she here?’

‘Elsie Marwell? Yes, she is. Only part-time, a few shifts a week, but I’d have her here every day if I could – she’s one of my best. You’ll find her through in the public bar. There’s two of the girls in there – she’s the shorter one, dark hair. Not in trouble, is she?’

‘No, we just want a word. Is there somewhere we can speak to her in private?’

‘Yes. Tell her I said you could use the back room.’

The public bar was busier than the saloon, but not yet crowded. A few men were drinking, and a boisterous game of darts was underway at the far end. Two young women in their mid-twenties were behind the bar. The taller of them, with extravagant blonde hair, was serving drinks, but the shorter one, a robust-looking brunette with a firm jaw, appeared to be locked in a fierce altercation with a heavily built man a good foot taller than herself. Jago held Cradock back while he observed the proceedings. They weren’t close enough to hear everything the barmaid said, but she was looking the man straight in the eye, and from the jut of her chin and the sharp working of her mouth he could tell she was having serious words with him. As they approached the bar they saw her fling her arm out towards the door and heard her say, ‘Just get out.’

Jago watched the man skulk out of the door and waited at the bar while the barmaid adjusted a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of place during her argument.

‘Was he giving you trouble?’ he said.

‘He probably thought he was,’ she replied, ‘but it was nothing. He’s only been in here five minutes and he starts getting fresh. A bit forward, if you know what I mean, and when I told him to go and wash his mouth out he got a bit uppity. So I told him to sling his hook. I won’t be spoken to like that. If a customer can’t keep a civil tongue in his head he can go and buy his pint somewhere else.’

‘What does your landlord think about that?’

‘He says he wishes some of the other staff here would do the same. We’ve had girls working behind this bar who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. They don’t last long. Just kids, some of them. If you don’t stand up to these types they’ll be all over you. I tell them where to get off, and as far as I’m concerned they can take a running jump. Now, you two gentlemen look altogether more civilised specimens. What can I get you to drink?’

‘Nothing, thank you – we’re here on business. We’re police officers and we understand you’re Joan Lewis’s sister-in-law. We’d just like to have a word with you in private – the landlord says we can use the back room, so perhaps you could show us the way.’

‘Police? Right, well, yes, you’d better come with me.’

She beckoned to the other woman, who was pulling a drink at the far end of the bar.

‘Cover for me for a tick, will you, Anne? Just got to have a word – shan’t be long.’

She took Jago and Cradock into a room at the back of the pub and offered them each a chair.

‘Mrs Marwell?’ asked Jago. ‘Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s my name. What do you want to know?’

‘I understand you and your husband live with your mother in Carnarvon Road.’

‘Yes, we did have our own place but we were bombed out, and she took us in. It’s only one room – not ideal, but it’s better than having to leave the area or get something temporary that’s not fit for human habitation.’

‘And your husband?’

‘I know what you’re thinking – what kind of man lets his wife work behind the bar in a place like this? I’ll tell you what kind – a man who means well but doesn’t bring enough money home of a Friday. He works at Addingtons, the varnish factory in Carpenters Road – they make something for putting on aeroplane wings now, for the RAF. Do you know the place?’

‘Yes, I believe I’ve been past it, but never inside.’

‘Well, it’s not much to speak of, but at least he gets a bit of overtime – it’s shifts, and he has to