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

back-street loans to people who are short of cash or can’t make ends meet – probably charging interest rates that’d make your eyes water – and a son who believes the government should give everyone free money to spend. No wonder they didn’t quite see eye to eye. I would’ve liked to be a fly on the wall if ever those two had got down to discussing economic policy. And I think I’d like to know a bit more about Charlie’s business activities.’

‘Shall I check up on him, sir?’

‘Yes, find out whether he had proper premises to trade from, like those places in Stratford Broadway that advertise loans without security – you know, “five pounds to five hundred, with or without security”, that sort of thing. And check whether he ever got a certificate for his business from the Petty Sessions Court. If he only died a couple of years ago it should all still be on record. If he didn’t get one, see if you can find out whether he applied and was found not to be a fit and proper person, or whether he didn’t apply at all. And find out whether there’s any record of him taking out a moneylender’s excise licence.’

‘Yes, sir. And will that be it, then?’

‘Will that be what?’

‘You said we had one or two little calls to make. So was it just one – going to the bank? Are we going back to the station now? I’m starving.’

‘It was two, Peter. Now that the landlord’s told us the sailor selling stockings at the Green Man on Sunday was Ernie Sullivan and the name we found in the sailor’s cap at Joan’s flat is E. G. Sullivan, I don’t think we need to wait for the navy to tell us where we can find him. We’re going round to Windmill Lane to see if anyone’s in. After that we’ll go back to the station.’

Within a few minutes they had arrived in Windmill Lane and found the only greengrocer’s shop in the street, just a few doors along from St Mark’s Mission Church. They knocked on the door to one side of the shop. It was opened by a solidly built man of about fifty, of medium height and balding. His shapeless brown trousers looked as if they’d been worn for most of their life by a man a size or two bigger, with gathered handfuls of spare waistband overflowing a wide leather belt. With these he wore scuffed working boots and a black waistcoat over a grubby white shirt without a collar.

‘Yeh? What do you want?’ he said, leaning forward with one hand braced against the door frame.

‘Mr Sullivan?’

‘What if I am?’

‘We’re police officers, and we’d like a word with your son.’

‘Which one?’

‘Ernie. I believe he’s a sailor.’

‘He is, more fool him. At least his brother’s got the wit not to volunteer for anything, especially the army or navy. He won’t go till they make him.’

‘Is Ernie in?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

Jago was beginning to think Sullivan was asking more questions than he was, but he opted for calm patience.

‘I’d like to speak to him, because I think we’ve found his cap.’

Sullivan’s laugh was loud and sneering. ‘Well, well, well – so we’re in the middle of a war, but the police have time to return lost property in person. Three cheers for the modern policeman!’

‘Your son is Mr E. G. Sullivan?’

‘That’s right. E for Ernest, G for George, after me. No one calls him Ernest, though – it’s always Ernie.’

‘I’d like to return his cap to him.’

‘Leave it here, then, and I’ll give it to him.’

‘No, I want to return it myself, because I have one or two questions to ask him.’

‘You’re not telling me he’s in trouble, are you? Leave the poor lad alone. You know what it’s like when a sailor gets a bit of leave – you can’t begrudge him a bit of fun.’

‘He’s not in trouble, but I think he may be able to help us. How long is he on leave for?’

‘Just a few days.’

‘And he’ll be staying here?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I’ll ask you again. Is he in?’

‘If you must know, he went down the pub for a spot of lunch and a pint with a couple of his old mates. The Cart and Horses, at the end of the street. What’s the time now?’

Jago checked his watch. ‘Ten past three.’

‘You won’t catch him now, then. They’ll have kicked him out at closing time, so if it’s gone three and he’s not back, he’s probably gone off with his mates somewhere. Don’t suppose he’ll be long, though.’

‘If he gets in within the next hour, can you ask him to pop down to West Ham police station? You know where that is, do you?’

‘I know.’

‘Tell him to ask for Detective Inspector Jago, and tell him I’ve got his cap.’

‘All right. I’ll send him down to see you. Can’t guarantee what sort of state he’ll be in, though. The poor lad’s living it up while he can.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Despite his unhelpful manner, it seemed George Sullivan had passed on the message as requested. The two detectives had barely got back to the station when a young man in Royal Navy rating’s uniform arrived and asked to see Jago. On being brought to the CID office he looked around, taking in the scene with the same look of intrigued interest that he might have shown when going ashore in Alexandria or Singapore.

‘Take a seat, Mr Sullivan,’ said Jago as he closed the door behind the visitor.

‘Thanks,’ said the sailor. ‘I’m not used to being called mister any more. It’s A. B. Sullivan these days – Able Seaman Sullivan, that is.’

‘Of course. Have you been in the navy for long?’

‘I volunteered a couple of years ago. Usual reason back then, I suppose – thought I’d see the world.’

‘And did you?’

‘Some of it, yes. This time last week I was in the middle of the Atlantic, on my way over from Canada. You’ve heard about