Free A Capital Crime by Laura Wilson Page A

need a statement from Mrs Davies. She said she’d not seen him since the beginning of November, didn’t she? Now, I’d better get cracking on this report for DCI Lamb, but if you want to get some kip …’
    ‘Don’t think I could, sir. Honestly.’
    ‘Well, ask Cudlipp to set up a couple of camp beds for later,anyway. And why don’t you see if you can find us a drink? For medicinal purposes, of course. I’m sure there’s a bottle knocking around.’
    Left alone, Stratton started bashing out a report for Lamb on the typewriter with two fingers, concentrating like fury in an attempt to keep at bay the pathetic image of Muriel and little Judy lying side by side on their respective slabs. Ballard returned half an hour later, bearing a half-full bottle of brandy. ‘All done, sir.’ As he spoke, he produced a tea cup from each pocket. ‘Shall I? Couldn’t find any glasses, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Why not?’ Stratton took his fag out of his mouth and picked a shred of tobacco off his lower lip. ‘I’m nearly finished.’
    Ballard poured and pushed a cup across the desk towards him. Stratton swallowed and made a face. ‘Filthy.’ He held out the cup for more. ‘Don’t know about you, but I could have done with that a couple of hours ago.’
    ‘Me too, sir.’
    ‘Oh, Christ … Jenny was pregnant when she died. Not so far gone, but … They thought it would have been a boy.’ It occurred to him then, for the first time, that Jenny might not have told him of the existence of the baby not only because she was afraid he’d be angry – they’d agreed to stop at two – but also because she’d been trying to get rid of it, as Muriel Davies had. That couldn’t have been the case, could it? Jenny loved children, she’d been the best of mothers, she wouldn’t … would she? But if she’d been afraid of giving birth with the doodlebugs, of the world she’d be bringing the child into … Stratton put his hands over his face. ‘I just wish she’d told me,’ he muttered thickly.
    ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
    Stratton jerked his head up. ‘No, Ballard, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I don’t know why I did. But with something like this, it brings it back. You know, I’ve never told anyone – not even the children – only the lady who took them when they were evacuated. When Dr McNally said Muriel Davies definitely was pregnant, I felt as if I’d been punched. And Davies killed his wife … I’d give anything to have Jenny back, and the baby. Be five and a half years old, now, if he’d lived … Going off to school. Still …’ Stratton rubbed a hand over his face. ‘No use dwelling on it. Doesn’t do a bloody bit of good.’
    ‘I suppose not, sir, but it’s rough, all the same. Drop more brandy?’
    ‘Thank you. You’ll have all that to come, your nipper learning to talk and walk and all the rest of it …’
    ‘Unlike poor little Judy.’
    ‘Yes … Too late. Best we can do is nail the bastard that killed her.’
    ‘I’ll drink to that, sir,’ said Ballard, with fierce solemnity. ‘I’ll certainly drink to that.’

Chapter Twelve
    Davies was white-faced, haggard, and very small. Next to DI Grove, who was a large, avuncular type, he seemed like a pygmy, and the top of his head barely came up to Stratton’s shoulder. The camel hair overcoat he wore looked too large, so that he looked like a boy in man’s clothing. Grove had told Stratton on the telephone that Davies was twenty-four years old, but he looked younger. Constable Williams’s description of him as ‘puny’ was spot on, thought Stratton, as the four men walked down the platform at Paddington Station towards the waiting car.
    ‘All right, was he, on the way back?’ Stratton asked DI Grove as DS Porter and the driver settled Davies in the back seat.
    Grove removed the pipe he habitually chomped on and, wiping a hand over his droopy moustache, stained cinnamon with nicotine, said in his distinctive phlegmy rumble,