Stratton breathed in the familiar station smell of soap, disinfectant and typewriter ribbons. Ballard, the young PC whod dealt with Miss Morgan, was by the desk, admonishing Freddie the Flasher. Ive got a weak bladder, theres nothing they can do for it, on my life . . . Stratton grinned to himself: there was one in every district. Female exhibitionists, as well - thered been one at his first posting whod never closed her curtains when she undressed for bed. Every night at 11.30. Good looking woman, too. Hed watched her several times, a few of them had. Not that he was proud of it, but . . .
He waited until Ballard was finished, then nodded at Freddies retreating back. Poor old sod. He cant be having much fun in the blackout.
No, sir. Ballard suppressed a grin.
You found Miss Morgan, didnt you?
Yes, sir. Ballard grimaced. I wont forget her in a hurry, I can tell you.
Who was with you?
PC 29, sir. Arliss.
I see. Fred Arliss, one of the old, horse-drawn brigade, was so incompetent that Arlissing around had become station slang for ballsing something up. Stratton wondered if Ballard knew this yet, but decided not to enlighten him.
Did either of you notice anything unusual about her?
Ballard frowned. I dont know if youd say it was unusual, but there was one thing that did strike me when we moved her - she didnt have her teeth in.
No sir. Made me wonder if it wasnt some kind of accident. The window was wide open, not much of a ledge, and if shed been leaning out . . . Its only a thought, sir. It just seemed to me a shame if the coroner said it was a suicide when it wasnt.
Certainly rough on the family.
She didnt have any relatives, and her husbands dead. Died in a fire. Thats how she got the scars on her face. The young chap she lived with told us.
Young chap? Stratton raised his eyebrows.
Nothing like that, sir. Ballard reddened. He wasnt . . . well . . . he wasnt normal.
A kiss not a handshake, you mean?
Ballard looked grateful. Something like that, sir. It was like talking to a girl.
Oh, well . . . Stratton shrugged. It takes all sorts. How are you finding it at Beak Street? Ballard, like most of the young policemen, lived in the section house. Stratton had lived there himself years ago, when he had his first posting at Vine Street. Tiny cubicles, and never enough blankets in the winter. Dont suppose its changed much, has it?
I shouldnt think so, sir. Do you remember her, in the films?
Cant say I do.
Stratton thanked Ballard and returned to his desk to shake his head at a heap of paperwork about the Italians they were supposed to be helping to round up for internment. Bloody ridiculous, he thought, staring at the list of names. It came from MI5, and they hadnt screened anybody so, basically, every Gino, Maria and Mario whod come to Britain after 1919 was for it, even if they had sons or brothers serving in the army. Not to mention attacks on Italian businesses . . . Admittedly, it was an easy way to get rid of some of the gangs, although, with the Sabini Brothers safely out of the way, the Yiddishers and the Malts would have the run of Soho, which would mean shifting alliances - accompanied by a fair bit of violence - until everyone settled down again. Not that the Jews were having an easy time of it, either. Stratton sighed. It wasnt the criminals he felt sorry for, it was the poor bastards who were trying to make an honest living and getting bricks chucked through their windows. Not to mention all the stories in the papers about Jews profiteering and evading the call up.
Excerpted from The Innocent Spy by Laura Wilson Copyright © 2009 by Laura Wilson. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books, a division of Macmillan, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Blood at the Root
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