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

‘Yes. We were supposed to make it ourselves, but my mum made mine, and I expect Richard’s made his. It was green – a sort of Saxon tunic with a leather belt, and a hood, and shorts.’

Jago took the suitcase from Cradock and opened it.

‘Like this?’ he said, showing the contents to Wilson.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Wilson. ‘What are you doing carrying that around with you?’

Jago ignored the question, preferring to continue with his own.

‘Could this have been Richard’s uniform, Mr Lewis?’

‘I couldn’t say.’

‘And you say you had a uniform like this too?’

‘Yes, I did, but I haven’t got it now. Looking back, I suppose it must all have seemed a bit ridiculous to outsiders. It wasn’t just the clothes – we had special words for things, like a private language. People had animal names, too, like Batwing or Sea Otter, and there was lots of stuff about being like Red Indians. But when I was a kid I loved all that. So did Richard.’

‘Did you keep up your friendship into adult life?’

‘No. I stopped going to the meetings when I was about fifteen – grew out of it, I suppose. Then Richard’s family moved to a posh house in Windsor Road, and we lost touch – I’ve never seen him since. I only found out what he was doing when I met Joan at work and we discovered I used to know him. By that time he was in France, of course, so we had no chance to get together and catch up on old times.’

‘And you say Richard was a keen member of the Kibbo Kift?’

‘Yes, he was at the time, but I don’t know whether he carried on. And later on I believe it packed up. Or rather, it turned into something else. About ten years ago, it was. That Hargrave bloke decided to make it some kind of political movement. He got them to wear green shirts and berets and grey trousers and changed the name to the Social Credit Party. Most people just called them the Greenshirts.’

‘Was that after Richard had moved away?’

‘Yes, that’s right. So I don’t know whether he was involved with them. From what I knew of him when we were younger, though, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jago thanked Wilson and opened the door of the manager’s office to show him out. Conway was just outside the door, with his back to it, and appeared to be adjusting a small display of leaflets on a table. He whirled round as the door clicked open.

‘Ah, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Have you finished?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ said Jago. ‘And thank you for letting us use your office. You can have it back now.’

Conway gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and stepped in through the doorway. Jago stood back to let him in.

‘And perhaps we could have a word with you too before we go,’ he added.

‘Why, of course,’ said Conway, settling into the seat behind his desk and motioning them to take a couple of chairs themselves. ‘How are your investigations going?’

‘It’s early days yet, Mr Conway, but we’re making satisfactory progress. I trust you’ve had no more trouble in the meantime.’

‘No, we haven’t, I’m glad to say. Things seem to have settled back to normal, as much as anything is normal these days – and of course we’re all still very shocked about poor Joan. Did you get anything useful out of Wilson?’

‘That I can’t tell you, I’m afraid. I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘Of course, yes.’

‘But I would like to ask you something about Mr Wilson. How would you describe his character?’

‘Well, let’s see. He seems a good enough fellow to me. I can’t say I know him very well – he hasn’t been working for me all that long.’

‘Just your initial impressions would be helpful, though. Does he strike you as a reliable man, trustworthy?’

‘I’ve no reason to think he isn’t. In fact I took him on because I’d heard a good report of him, to do with what happened at the Broadway.’

‘And what was that good report?’

‘I was told he’d been on duty there the night it was hit. It was the same weekend the Stratford Empire caught a packet. I was sad to see that place go. I suppose it was lucky the theatre’d been closed for quite a few weeks, so nobody was killed, but it took a direct hit straight through the roof and was wrecked. Such a beautiful building.’

‘Indeed. And Mr Wilson?’

‘Yes, well, as you probably know, the Broadway Super was damaged when another bomb hit the cafe next door, early that same evening, and all those passengers in the buses going past were killed. Bert Wilson was on the front door at the Broadway, and it seems he was a bit of a hero. When I asked him about it he said it was nothing, he’d just got a few cuts, and his hat was blown off, but the manager at the Broadway told me Bert had gone straight over to the wreckage of the buses and helped pull the survivors out. With no thought to his own safety, he said. Cool as a cucumber. He reckoned Bert ought to be put up for one of those new George Medals. That’s really why I gave him a job, and he hasn’t done anything yet to suggest my judgement was wrong.’

‘A reliable and honest man, then, in your opinion?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t have taken him on if I thought he wasn’t. But it’s difficult to say. I mean, I think he’s a brave man, but being brave doesn’t always make you honest, does it? I remember there was a fellow a few years back who lost part of his hand in the Great War and won the Military Medal, then got jailed for forging cheques. He’d been brave, but he still ended up behind bars, didn’t he?’

‘Ah, yes. Three-fingered Jack they called him. I remember that case. Military Medal and bar, in fact.