(too fucking right, thought Stratton).
After about five minutes of this, Stratton decided he’d put up with quite enough fanny for one morning, and he didn’t want to annoy Jenny by being late for lunch. He terminated the conversation and went down to the next landing in search of Mr Stockley, who was, in exaggerated contrast to his neighbour, tall, thin, and lugubrious. He came to the door in his shirtsleeves, and answered Stratton’s questions in monosyllables. No, he hadn’t seen any men on Monday, or let anyone into the house, and no, he hadn’t heard anything. ‘What were you doing?’ asked Stratton.
‘Playing my gramophone records.’ He glanced over the banisters before adding, sotto voce, with the air of one confessing a guilty secret, ‘Mahler.’
‘Oh.’ Stockley stared at him expectantly, and, feeling that some additional response was called for, Stratton tapped the side of his nose. ‘I shan’t tell anyone.’
On his way to the bus stop, Stratton reflected that, although both men had answered his questions, neither had shown any interest in why he was asking them in the first place. Clearly, they didn’t know Joe well. Stratton felt positive that if Rogers had been aware of his fellow lodger’s inclinations there would have been a lot more metaphorical digs in the ribs, but he supposed that the man was far too wrapped up in his own opinions to be pricked by curiosity. Stockley, on the other hand, was just relieved to get Mahler - who was, presumably, German, or at least Austrian - off his chest.
Fingerprints were pretty unlikely - Joe had said that Wallace and his chum were wearing gloves. And in any case, what with the gang murder and the jewel thieves taking up most of his time, his guv’nor DCI Lamb would bollock him from here to kingdom come if he discovered that precious working hours were being spent on something else. Especially if that something was - and Stratton could almost hear him say it - a confirmed suicide and a roughed-up bum-boy. All the same, he’d have a word with George Wallace tomorrow. The billiard hall in Wardour Street, or maybe the boozer up by the corner . . . Wallace wouldn’t have gone far.
Stratton just made it back in time for lunch. Donald, opening the door, grimaced and muttered, ‘Thank God you’re here. He hasn’t stopped.’ Stratton arrived in the kitchen to find Reg in the middle of a typical Sunday lunch performance, getting in the women’s way and hamming it up at every opportunity, before finally, when the baked apples appeared, breaking into song in what he imagined was the accent of Stratton’s childhood, accompanying himself by banging his spoon and fork on the table:
‘Puddin’! Puddin’! Puddin’!
Gi’ me plenty o’puddin’,
So pass me plate,
And don’t be late,
And pile it up wi’ puddin’!’
As usual, everyone ignored this and concentrated on handing round bowls and scraping the last of the rather watery custard from the jug. Up to that point, Stratton had felt too distracted by what Joe Vincent had told him to want to punch Reg more than about three times - which was several times fewer than average. Now, he glanced across at Johnny and saw, on the boy’s face, a snarl of undisguised hatred directed towards his father.
It had occurred to Stratton more than once that Reg had acted the buffoon so much and so often that his real self was now hopelessly submerged beneath a heap of comic songs, yarn-telling and lofty pronouncements. When he looked at Johnny, it struck him that, although someone as fundamentally ridiculous as Reg could never be called tragic, the consequences for his son might well be exactly that. While this thought was hardly comforting, it did serve to take his mind off talking to George Wallace, which he wasn’t looking forward to in the least.
TWELVE
It was only the third time Diana had been inside Forbes-James’s flat. Apart from the functional and phenomenally untidy office in which
After about five minutes of this, Stratton decided he’d put up with quite enough fanny for one morning, and he didn’t want to annoy Jenny by being late for lunch. He terminated the conversation and went down to the next landing in search of Mr Stockley, who was, in exaggerated contrast to his neighbour, tall, thin, and lugubrious. He came to the door in his shirtsleeves, and answered Stratton’s questions in monosyllables. No, he hadn’t seen any men on Monday, or let anyone into the house, and no, he hadn’t heard anything. ‘What were you doing?’ asked Stratton.
‘Playing my gramophone records.’ He glanced over the banisters before adding, sotto voce, with the air of one confessing a guilty secret, ‘Mahler.’
‘Oh.’ Stockley stared at him expectantly, and, feeling that some additional response was called for, Stratton tapped the side of his nose. ‘I shan’t tell anyone.’
On his way to the bus stop, Stratton reflected that, although both men had answered his questions, neither had shown any interest in why he was asking them in the first place. Clearly, they didn’t know Joe well. Stratton felt positive that if Rogers had been aware of his fellow lodger’s inclinations there would have been a lot more metaphorical digs in the ribs, but he supposed that the man was far too wrapped up in his own opinions to be pricked by curiosity. Stockley, on the other hand, was just relieved to get Mahler - who was, presumably, German, or at least Austrian - off his chest.
Fingerprints were pretty unlikely - Joe had said that Wallace and his chum were wearing gloves. And in any case, what with the gang murder and the jewel thieves taking up most of his time, his guv’nor DCI Lamb would bollock him from here to kingdom come if he discovered that precious working hours were being spent on something else. Especially if that something was - and Stratton could almost hear him say it - a confirmed suicide and a roughed-up bum-boy. All the same, he’d have a word with George Wallace tomorrow. The billiard hall in Wardour Street, or maybe the boozer up by the corner . . . Wallace wouldn’t have gone far.
Stratton just made it back in time for lunch. Donald, opening the door, grimaced and muttered, ‘Thank God you’re here. He hasn’t stopped.’ Stratton arrived in the kitchen to find Reg in the middle of a typical Sunday lunch performance, getting in the women’s way and hamming it up at every opportunity, before finally, when the baked apples appeared, breaking into song in what he imagined was the accent of Stratton’s childhood, accompanying himself by banging his spoon and fork on the table:
‘Puddin’! Puddin’! Puddin’!
Gi’ me plenty o’puddin’,
So pass me plate,
And don’t be late,
And pile it up wi’ puddin’!’
As usual, everyone ignored this and concentrated on handing round bowls and scraping the last of the rather watery custard from the jug. Up to that point, Stratton had felt too distracted by what Joe Vincent had told him to want to punch Reg more than about three times - which was several times fewer than average. Now, he glanced across at Johnny and saw, on the boy’s face, a snarl of undisguised hatred directed towards his father.
It had occurred to Stratton more than once that Reg had acted the buffoon so much and so often that his real self was now hopelessly submerged beneath a heap of comic songs, yarn-telling and lofty pronouncements. When he looked at Johnny, it struck him that, although someone as fundamentally ridiculous as Reg could never be called tragic, the consequences for his son might well be exactly that. While this thought was hardly comforting, it did serve to take his mind off talking to George Wallace, which he wasn’t looking forward to in the least.
TWELVE
It was only the third time Diana had been inside Forbes-James’s flat. Apart from the functional and phenomenally untidy office in which
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