The Innocent Spy by Laura Wilson

Author:Laura Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2011-06-13T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-SIX

Stratton negotiated the three steps from his chair to the office door with difficulty. Space for storage, even for the small number of documents salvaged from West End Central, was limited at Great Marlborough Street, and most of the files that remained – waterlogged, torn, and reeking of smoke – were now stacked around his desk.

The woman was waiting for him outside. Stratton didn’t hold out much hope, since the information they’d had to circulate about the unidentified body was pretty meagre, but at least someone had come forward. According to Policewoman Gaines, this woman, a Mrs Symmonds, thought that the missing man might be her husband.

She was a scrawny little thing with a thin, drawn face – forty, perhaps, but almost certainly younger than her looks suggested – scruffy and unkempt in a mangy-looking grey coat. Maybe, thought Stratton, giving her the benefit of the doubt although it was nearly eleven o’clock, she’d spent the night in the underground and hadn’t been home. In any case, she looked as though she could do with a cup of tea. Stratton arranged this, then escorted her to one of the interview rooms. ‘Arthur Symmonds,’ she said, without preamble. ‘My husband.’ She didn’t sound upset or angry, just tired and fed up.

‘When did you last see him?’

‘February sometime. Been gone ever since.’

‘Did you report him missing?’

‘Oh, no …’ Mrs Symmonds looked surprised. ‘He does go off sometimes. Business.’

‘What business is that?’

‘Oh …’ She looked intently at the wall behind Stratton’s head, as if expecting the answer to be written there. ‘Just business. Dealings,’ she added, nodding as if this clarified the matter. ‘He had to go away sometimes, you see.’

‘Away where?’

‘Round and about. I don’t know, really. It’s been over six months now, so I thought perhaps …’ She looked at Stratton expectantly.

‘Where do you live, Mrs Symmonds?’

‘Poland Street. Number fourteen. Above the grocer’s.’

‘How old is your husband?’

‘Forty-five. Forty-six, now.’

‘What date is his birthday?’

‘The sixteenth of April.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Oh, a long time …’ Mrs Symmonds screwed up her face in thought. Unusual, noted Stratton. In his experience, it was men who had difficulty remembering, not women.

‘Eighteen years, now.’

‘The date?’

‘Nineteen twenty-two. Fifth of May.’

She’d remembered that fast enough. Perhaps it was just the way he’d phrased the question. ‘Can you describe him for me?’

‘Well, like it said, really. Quite ordinary. Brown hair, you know …’

‘Straight, wavy?’

‘Oh, straight.’ She said this as though wavy hair was a particularly revolting aberration.

‘Eyes?’

‘A browny colour.’

‘Hazel?’

‘No, browny, like I said.’

‘What about his teeth? Had he been to a dentist, that you know of?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that.’ After a moment she added, with obvious pride, ‘He had his own teeth.’ Leaning forward, as if about to make a confession, she said, ‘I’ve been worried about his feet.’

‘His feet?’ echoed Stratton, disconcerted by the sudden transfer from one end of the body to the other.

‘Yes. They were hurting him. Terrible corns, he had. I kept telling him he should see a foot doctor.’

‘Did he?’

‘I don’t know. He wasn’t keen on doctors.

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