They crossed the road to where the fireman was sitting with his back against a garden wall. He got to his feet as they approached.
‘Mr Evans?’ said Jago.
‘That’s me,’ said the fireman.
Jago thought he sounded surprisingly cheery for a man who’d been up all night fighting fires during an air raid.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago of West Ham CID,’ he said, ‘and this is Detective Constable Cradock.’
‘Good morning, gentlemen. Hosea Evans at your service. I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse the mess.’ He gestured over his shoulder towards the jute works site and its ruined buildings, glowing red in the darkness. ‘I don’t think this is quite what my illustrious countryman had in mind – you know, “keep them burning”.’
‘What?’
‘The home fires. You know – Ivor Novello. “Keep the Home Fires Burning”.’
He sang the first line of Novello’s song from the last war in a mellow baritone voice.
‘I see,’ said Jago. ‘The song, yes – very stirring. More popular at home than at the front, though, I’d imagine. So would I be right in thinking you must be Welsh?’
Evans laughed. ‘That’s right. I suppose if the voice doesn’t give me away the name will.’
‘I understand it was you who found the body.’
‘Well, strictly speaking it was that ARP warden who found the body, but I was with her, see?’
‘And what time was that?’
‘About three o’clock, as I recall.’
‘Where did you find the body?’
‘It was in the downstairs flat at number 28 over there. In the bedroom – that’s the front room.’
‘And can you tell me why you moved the body?’
‘Well, we thought we had to, really. The fire next door looked like it might spread, you see, so we had to make a quick decision – leave her there and risk any evidence of who did it being destroyed by fire, or pull her out. So that’s what we did. We got her out and covered her with a blanket, out of respect, like – respect for the dead. The ARP warden said she’d find a policeman, and I went back to my work. But look, couldn’t I tell you all this later? I’d like to get away if it’s all the same to you.’
‘No, I’ll need you to show me where you found her. I’ll—’
Jago was interrupted by a familiar voice calling his name. He turned round and saw Dr Anderson, the pathologist, emerging from the darkness.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Anderson. ‘I was actually asleep when your chaps called me. I came as soon as I could. What have you got for me?’
‘Mr Evans,’ said Jago to the fireman, ‘I’ll have to ask you to excuse me for a moment. Perhaps you’d like to get yourself a cup of tea – I saw a mobile canteen parked in the High Street on my way here.’
‘Very well,’ said Evans with a sigh. ‘Can I get one for you and your boy too?’
Jago took ‘boy’ to be a reference to Cradock, but in view of his colleague’s evident youth he didn’t think it inappropriate.
‘That would be kind of you. One spoonful of sugar for me, two for my colleague here. And Dr Anderson?’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Anderson. ‘I confess I grabbed one in the hospital canteen before I left.’
‘Just the two, then,’ said Jago. ‘Thank you, Mr Evans.’
Evans sauntered off towards the High Street, in no apparent hurry.
‘Right, let’s see what we’ve got,’ said Anderson, rubbing his hands together. Jago was unsure whether this was because of the night chill or simply a reflection of the unseemly enthusiasm the pathologist seemed to have for poking about in dead bodies. He pulled back the blanket and played his flashlight over the dead woman’s body.
Her clothes were loose-fitting and ordinary-looking: the kind of things he imagined a woman might wear for comfort rather than show, when she wasn’t expecting visitors or when she’d got home from work and changed. She was slim, of average build and height, with nothing visibly exceptional about her. But his hand twitched as he shifted the flashlight to her face and saw her eyes. They were bulging, staring forcefully at nothing, a picture of terror.
He tried to imagine what she would have looked like before she was consumed by those last terrible moments of fear and agony. If he ignored her eyes he could see an attractive young woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and a confident chin. What his mother would probably have called presentable. And she had what looked like a stocking tied tightly round her neck.
‘Do you know who she is?’ said Anderson.
‘Not yet. I’m going to take a look at her flat as soon as you’ve finished here, so I might find out more in there.’
‘Presumably not married, though – no rings on her finger.’
‘So I see.’
‘If you’ve seen enough, I think I’d rather like to get her back to the mortuary. I can put her under some proper light there. I just need to take her temperature before I go, to help establish an estimated time of death.’
Jago took a deep breath.
‘Tell me when you’ve finished,’ he said, turning away and motioning Cradock to come with him. He understood that pathologists had to do these things, but he had always found it such an undignified procedure that he felt guilty if he watched. Even the dead deserved their dignity.
‘All right, gentlemen, you can come back now,’ said Anderson moments later. ‘All done.’
‘Can you give us an indication of when she died?’
‘I’ll let you know when I’ve had a look at her in the mortuary. Right now her temperature’s still a little above the normal 98.4 degrees, but that’s nothing unusual.’
‘But she’s dead,’ said Cradock. ‘Shouldn’t it be lower?’
‘Not in this case,’ said Anderson. ‘As I’m sure you can tell from that thing round her neck, she’s been strangled, and in cases of asphyxia the body temperature actually rises.’
‘Right,’
