‘Or someone else wanted to make sure and removed it.’
‘Possibly, but if you’d just murdered her you wouldn’t want to hang around collecting up all her stuff before you got away, would you?’
‘No. So maybe she just didn’t want anyone to know who she was. A bit weird. And what about that Soho Strangler business, sir? Do you think she was on the game?’
‘It might explain why she moved out to a place of her own, and also why she let a stranger into her flat at night, if that’s what she did. We need to find out more about how she spent her time when she wasn’t being an usherette. I want you to have a word with Tom Gracewell – ask him if he’s seen or heard anything on his beat that would suggest she was a lady of the night. And check whether Scotland Yard’s got any fingerprints for her on record. If she’s ever been charged with a prostitution offence anywhere in the Metropolitan Police district she’ll have been fingerprinted. Meanwhile I’ll talk to whoever was responsible for investigating those Soho stranglings.’
‘There’s also the question of someone else, isn’t there? Someone she presumably knew rather well. What I mean is, who’s the father of her child?’
‘Indeed. The only person we know it can’t possibly be is her husband. He may be resourceful, but not that resourceful.’
‘We need to find that sailor, too, don’t we? The one whose cap we found in Joan’s flat.’
‘That’s right. And there’s also the small matter of the break-in at the Regal. If Conway’s right about the takings, it’s a serious amount of money, so we’ll have to get onto it.’
‘Do you think it could’ve been an inside job, sir? None of them look like explosives experts to me, but then if one of the keyholders was involved, all they’d have to do is let the professionals in.’
‘That’s if the people who blew the safe were professionals. It’s certainly dangerous work for amateurs, but if someone told them what to do they might manage it. They’d have had to get hold of the explosives, too, of course.’
‘Yes, but that can’t be difficult in a war. There must be hundreds of factories making munitions now.’
‘On the contrary, that’s just it. The idea of fifth column types or saboteurs getting hold of explosives must frighten the life out of the government, so those places are all guarded. And in any case, munitions use TNT, but this was Polar Ammon Gelignite. That’s an industrial explosive, so it’s more likely to have come from a mine or quarry, and there’s nowhere like that in this area.’
‘No obvious explanation, then.’
‘No. And what did you make of Conway, the cinema manager?’
‘He’s a pompous little – sorry sir, I mean he certainly fancies himself. Too cocky by half, if you ask me.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, he obviously likes being the boss, and he reckons he’s quite a success story because he’s got the job so young. Likes chucking his weight about a bit though, doesn’t he?’
‘Perhaps he thinks that’s what seniority’s all about.’
‘He seemed to take it all in his stride – the break-in and the theft of all that money. I got the impression he was just as concerned about his precious little envelope as he was about the company losing a weekend’s takings.’
‘Yes. Just some personal papers, he said. I wonder what those were, and what made them so important he had to put them in the safe?’
‘They could be something suspicious, you mean?’
‘I don’t know – it’s just curious. But he’s not the kind of character I’d buy a second-hand car from, if you know what I mean. It’s that smooth manner of his, I think. He definitely strikes me as a man with an eye to the main chance.’
‘Too smart for his own good, if you ask me.’
‘Quite possibly,’ said Jago. ‘He should go far.’
CHAPTER TEN
If the bomb had fallen a mere two or three yards farther down the street the National Provincial Bank would have been flattened, but in the randomness of aerial bombing it had been spared, while the adjacent furnishings store had been blasted to ruins. On the outside the bank’s stone-clad walls still exuded their customary air of security and permanence, but when Jago and Cradock went inside they found a scene of quiet but urgent industry, with staff endeavouring to maintain normal business while others swept up dust and other debris blown in through the shattered windows. A clerk took them to the manager, secluded in his office at the back of the bank.
‘I realise this is not a good day to deprive you of a member of staff, even for ten minutes, but I need to speak to Miss Carol Hurst in connection with our enquiries,’ said Jago once they had been introduced.
‘Of course. Miss Hurst – one of our shorthand typists,’ said the manager, Harold Pemberton. He was a studious-looking man in his fifties, crisply turned out in the habitual black jacket and striped trousers to which his occupation still clung. To Jago this was quaint, since the professional world in general seemed to have defected to lounge suits. But he assumed it reflected the conservative nature of banking: an air of sober respectability was everything. He thought the man would be mortified to know there was what looked like a smudge of ash on his wing collar.
‘As you can see,’ Pemberton continued, ‘we’ve had a slight disruption to our business today, but we must be thankful we’re still here. We’re doing our very best to maintain our normal service, and so far I think we’re succeeding. So you want to speak to Miss Hurst. I do hope she isn’t in any trouble.’ He said this with an amused grin, as if the idea of one of his staff being in trouble was
