‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago of West Ham CID, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. I’m sorry to disturb you at this time of the morning.’
He paused, expecting the conventional polite acceptance of his apology, but the woman simply stared at him, her face impassive.
‘May I ask your name?’ he continued.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘It’s Lewis, Mrs Audrey Lewis.’
‘I’m calling in connection with Miss Joan Lewis, and I believe she lives here. Is that correct?’
The woman’s voice was as expressionless as her face. ‘No.’
Jago produced the identity card from his pocket. ‘This document says she does.’
She took the card from him and gave it a cursory glance. ‘Well, this document’s wrong then, isn’t it? She moved out of here three weeks ago. And before you tell me, yes, I’m aware that she’s supposed to notify the authorities, although whether she did I have no idea. Knowing her, she’s probably been too busy out dancing or partying to go and get it changed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t even know where the National Registration Office is. Not the most responsible of women.’
She folded the card shut and handed it back to him.
‘And another thing,’ she added. ‘She’s not Miss Joan Lewis. She’s Mrs Lewis, and she’s only related to me by marriage. She’s my son’s wife.’ She paused, then added with what seemed like a hint of distaste, ‘I’m her mother-in-law.’
‘I see, thank you,’ he replied. ‘I’m sorry, but the cards don’t give marital status. May we come in?’
She nodded briefly and admitted them to the house, then showed them into the living room. It was comfortably furnished, but she didn’t invite them to sit.
‘I’m afraid we have some difficult news,’ Jago began. ‘You might like to take a seat.’
For the first time, a hint of emotion crossed her face. ‘It’s not about Richard, is it?’
‘Richard?’
‘My son, Richard.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s about your daughter-in-law.’
The flash of concern that had illuminated Mrs Lewis’s face faded, and she sat down. Jago and Cradock followed suit.
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter-in-law was found dead this morning in a flat in Carpenters Road.’
She nodded slowly, as if taking the news in.
‘Dead?’ she repeated flatly. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m afraid she’d been strangled.’
‘Strangled? You mean someone killed her?’
‘Yes.’
She shook her head in disbelief. ‘But why would anyone want to do that?’
‘We don’t know yet. Can you think of anyone who might’ve wished her harm?’
‘Of course not. She’s a foolish young woman, but that’s no reason for someone to strangle her. It doesn’t make sense.’
‘What do you mean when you say she was foolish?’
‘You know, typical of the young girls of today, I suppose – flighty, irresponsible, more interested in dressing up and putting on make-up and having a good time than in buckling down to some hard work and taking life seriously.’
‘You mentioned your son, Richard. Would he be her husband?’
‘Yes, he’s my only son.’
For the first time her expression softened. She stood up and crossed the room to the mantelpiece, on which a framed photograph of a man in military uniform stood beside the clock. She brought it back and handed it to Jago.
‘That’s Richard. He’s twenty-six now, and in the Territorial Army – he volunteered last year, before the war started.’
‘Can you tell me where I can contact him? We’ll obviously need to speak to him as soon as possible.’
She replaced the picture on the mantelpiece, tracing her hand across the frame in an almost imperceptible caress.
‘That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s not what you think. I’m sure he’s alive – it’s just that he’s been reported missing, so we don’t know where he is. He’s serving in the Queen Victoria’s Rifles, a Territorial Army motorcycle battalion. They were particularly keen to recruit well-educated young men who were already experienced motorcycle riders. He’s always loved motorbikes, you see, and he had one of his own until he went away. It was a BSA, I think, and he paid nearly forty pounds for it. He was always down at the stadium in Custom House, watching the speedway racing. He said he’d be back there as soon as he got some leave, but I believe they’ve closed it down now because of the war …’ Her voice faded away, and she seemed to be lost in thought about him.
‘Went away?’ said Jago.
‘His unit was sent out to Calais to defend it against the Germans when the army was retreating in France.’
‘When was that?’
‘He left on the twenty-first of May. We had a telegram later, saying he was missing. I saw in the paper that an officer from his battalion who’d been missing had now been reported a prisoner of war, but Richard isn’t an officer, he’s just a private, so it isn’t him. I expect that’s what’s happened to him, though – either he’s a prisoner of war and we’ll find out soon, or he’s escaped. There was something else in the paper about one of the men being captured by the Germans but escaping and rowing back to England in a dinghy. That’s the kind of thing Richard would do – he’s fit, and very resourceful, and he can speak some French too. He’s a young man of great ability, with a successful future ahead of him. His father would have been very proud of him.’
‘His father?’
‘Yes. That’s him there.’
She gestured to a second photograph on the opposite side of the clock to her son’s, then walked over to it and handed it to Jago.
‘That’s my late husband, Charles.’
‘Oh,’ said Jago, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Thank you, Inspector. He passed away the year before last – just before Christmas 1938.
