‘An interesting observation,’ said Anderson. ‘A detective’s observation rather than a medical man’s, but a good point, I would think. I did notice she didn’t have any rings on her fingers. Could that be significant?’
‘Possibly,’ said Jago. ‘As a matter of interest, did you find any tattoos when you were examining her?’
‘No, I didn’t, but then I wouldn’t normally expect to find tattoos on a woman. Why would that be of interest?’
‘The absence of them wouldn’t be significant, but if she had some, it could be – it’s a bit of a tradition among prostitutes to have them, especially on their arms and chest.’
‘Well, this body doesn’t have any. So does that mean she was a respectable lady?’
‘Not necessarily, but in any case I don’t think it’s as simple as that. I’ve known a lot of these girls over the years, and it’s not their fault that that’s how they make their living. Some of my superiors would disagree, but I say it’s not our job to divide women into respectable and unrespectable. If someone’s arrested and charged and goes to court, it’s their alleged offence that they’re on trial for, not their character, but all too often that type of woman seems to be convicted just because the court decides she’s “unrespectable”.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Anderson. ‘But you haven’t asked the obvious question.’
‘No, but I was about to. I assume you’ve examined the body for evidence of sexual activity?’
‘Of course, and I think you’ll find it interesting. There was evidence of sexual experience.’
‘There you are, then,’ said Cradock.
‘But,’ Anderson continued, ignoring him, ‘no evidence of recent sexual activity, so if she is a murdered prostitute, she wasn’t working last night.’
‘That doesn’t mean she wasn’t on the game, though, does it?’ said Cradock.
‘No, of course not, but it’s worth noting. And there’s something even more interesting I’ve discovered.’
‘What’s that?’ said Jago, his eyes fixed on Anderson’s face.
‘I checked for any sign that she’d experienced childbirth. There was none, but that was going to change. She was expecting – about twelve weeks pregnant, in my estimation. She would probably have known for some weeks, but she’d reached the stage when it was just beginning to show.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Where to next, guv’nor?’ said Cradock as they left the hospital. ‘Any chance of a bite to eat on the way?’
‘You said you’d already had some breakfast,’ said Jago.
‘Yes, but that was just a quick snack on my way out of the section house, and it was hours ago. These early starts always make me hungry.’
Jago checked his watch in the morning twilight. It was ten to seven. The sun wasn’t up yet, and the blackout still had about a quarter of an hour to run. Besides, the all-clear siren had only sounded about half an hour before, so it was perhaps a little too early in the morning to go knocking on doors.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll nip back to the station and get something in the canteen. But no dawdling.’
Jago himself felt sufficiently recovered from the ordeal of the mortuary to tuck into a breakfast of egg and bacon when they got there, but he was surprised at how much food Cradock managed to pack away.
‘Not expecting to eat again today, are you?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, sir – I mean no, sir. I mean, it’s just that you never know in this job, do you, sir? Got to keep your strength up.’
‘You have to be able to move, too. Supposing you have to chase someone down the street as soon as we get out of here?’
‘Don’t you worry about that, sir. I fancy my chances.’
‘Right, well let’s just hope we don’t have to put your confidence to the test. Now finish that – it’s time to go.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cradock, cramming in a last mouthful. ‘Where to?’
‘I think we need to check that address on Joan Lewis’s identity card – Carnarvon Road’s only about five minutes’ walk from here, so it shouldn’t deplete your energy stores too much.’
Five minutes proved to be an optimistic estimate. They stopped when they saw a house on the way that looked badly damaged by fire, and an elderly couple standing on the pavement outside it amidst a jumble of salvaged possessions.
‘Incendiary,’ said the man. One word was enough to tell the whole story, now that incendiary bombs had become familiar nightly arrivals: little silver cylinders crashing through roof tiles in a dazzling white flash of magnesium that turned to yellow as the flames took hold.
‘If I’d been twenty years younger …’ he added disconsolately.
Yes, thought Jago, twenty years younger and he could have scrambled into the loft with a bucket of earth or a stirrup pump and saved the day. Another twenty years and he might have been up in the sky shooting the bomber down before it could do its deadly work. These were not good days to be old. The woman said the local council was sending a van to collect their remaining things and put them in storage, and she asked if they could help stack them neatly so they wouldn’t block the pavement. The sort of people you’d want for neighbours, thought Jago, as he and Cradock shifted the couple’s pathetic belongings into some sort of orderly pile.
It was all done in minutes, and by just after eight they were knocking on the door of 166 Carnarvon Road.
The house was large, solid and Victorian, with a patch of garden in front of it and stone steps up to the front door. Four or five bedrooms, if not more, Jago guessed, and worth a bob or two. He rapped the substantial brass knocker on its plate and heard the sound echo down what was presumably a spacious hallway. He hoped he wasn’t waking anyone. The door opened, and he realised his concern was groundless. The woman standing before him had clearly not just got out of bed, nor did she look about to busy herself with housework.
The steps were contrived to position
