Tompkins held the tunic up and checked its length. ‘I’m not sure whether it’s meant to be for a man or a woman. It’s about the right size for a dress for a woman, or it could be a sort of tunic for a small man.’
‘And the shorts go with it?’
‘Looks like it, sir. In that case I’d say it was all made for a small man or a boy. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, I would. Well, thanks, Frank, you’ve been very helpful. It’s connected in some way with the murder victim, you see. But you’re right, it definitely does have a bit of a theatrical look about it. More a costume than a uniform.’
‘Yes, sir. Suitable for pantomime, like a lot of what goes on inside this nick. All it needs now is a little bow and arrow to go with it. And speaking of Robin Hood and his merry men, that reminds me. The Sheriff of Nottingham would like a word with you.’
He nodded his head towards the corridor leading to Divisional Detective Inspector Soper’s office, a conspiratorial look on his face. ‘Wants to know how you’re getting on with the unfortunate strangled lady, I believe.’
DDI Eric Soper presided over all CID operations on K Division of the Metropolitan Police, and therefore presided over Jago. The latter didn’t know how old the DDI was, but reckoned he must surely be at retirement age by now. The powers that be had presumably kept him on because of the current shortage of men, and so Jago accepted the situation as just one more troublesome variety of collateral damage to be put up with for the duration. He braced himself and knocked on the door.
‘Come,’ said a voice from within.
He opened the door and went in. Soper was sitting at a heavy old mahogany kneehole desk. He looked up and stubbed out the last finger’s width of his cigarette into an ashtray, then blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
‘Take a seat, John,’ he said, motioning to the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Close up, Jago noticed how battered the edge of the desk was – it looked as if it must have been brought down from the old police station on the corner of Langthorne Street when the present one was built at the end of the last century. He wondered which was older, the desk or its current occupant.
‘Making progress with that Carpenters Road case?’ said Soper, glancing at his watch.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jago. ‘Early days yet, but we’ve identified the victim and established one or two possible lines of enquiry.’
‘Strangled with a stocking, I hear. Gruesome business, by the sound of it. The work of a maniac?’
‘At this stage I couldn’t say, sir. But you remember the Soho Strangler?’
‘What? You don’t mean to say it’s another one of those? That’s the last thing we want on our doorstep. This woman was a prostitute, then?’
‘No, sir, we don’t know, and I’m not jumping to any conclusions. It’s just a bit reminiscent of those very unpleasant murders.’
‘Have you ever seen a pleasant one?’
‘No, sir.’ Jago felt his patience was being tried already.
‘I remember what it was like in the Great War,’ said Soper. ‘I don’t know what four years of fighting did for the national economy, but as far as prostitution was concerned it was boom-time. Morals went to pot. Time was when a copper knew who all the ladies of easy virtue were and could keep an eye on things, but it seems in wartime even respectable women get involved in the trade. And as for unfaithfulness – where do I start? Some men are barely arrived at the front before their wives’ eyes start wandering, and we know what that leads to. I say we should never have given them the vote. Look at the clothes they started wearing once they’d got it, and the things they started doing. And it’ll be worse in this war, you mark my words.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So what are you doing next?’
‘We’ve been tracking down family, friends and work colleagues and talking to them, and we’ve found a hat at the dead woman’s flat that looks like it shouldn’t have been there – a sailor’s cap. I’m going to try to find the owner when we’ve finished here.’
‘Good. And that safe-blowing business at the cinema?’
‘You’ve heard about it, then, sir? It comes at a bad time, what with the murder to investigate.’
‘That’s too bad. We’ve no one to spare, so you’ll have to take care of that too. If word gets around that picture houses are easy prey there’ll be more of the same, and we need to keep the cinemas going – they’re vital for morale, apparently, although I can’t see why, given the frightful tosh they put on most of the time. If you ask me, we need more good old-fashioned patriotic films – the cinemas still have far too many feeble-minded comedies, and they’re always showing that ridiculous romantic nonsense that comes from Hollywood.’
‘Really, sir? I very rarely go.’
Soper stared at him. He sometimes wondered whether Jago treated these meetings as seriously as he should.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Right,’ said Amy Evans. ‘There’s some sausage toad keeping warm in the oven for your supper, and I’ll make you a cup of tea before I go.’
‘I wish you didn’t have to,’ said her husband, sneezing into a large handkerchief that had been more grey than white for some years. Hosea Evans was hunched in an easy chair only inches from the oven, trying to keep himself warm as what felt like a developing cold tormented his nose.
‘You won’t make it any better by sitting right next to that wet coat,’ she replied, busying herself with the teapot.
‘But I can’t go back on duty in that. I’ll catch my death.’
The Home Office in its wisdom had
