The Bermondsey Bookshop

by Mary Gibson

  Ginger nodded grimly and jammed a flat cap over his wiry red hair. Tying a white choker around his neck, he said, ‘Come on, Rasher, let’s go and sort this bastard out.’ His tone was as matter-of-fact as if they were about to tackle a shipload of bananas instead of a killer. They walked briskly along Tooley Street before crossing a fog-shrouded Tower Bridge. The usual daytime and early-evening crush of traffic was absent now, with only a few smudgy headlights from the late-night buses crossing the bridge. Gas lamps flared along the north embankment, illuminating the inky water below, and they walked in silence, heads down, intent on getting over the bridge and out of the cold wind.

  Once on the other side, Ginger asked, ‘If he’s there, what do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to frighten him into admitting what he did to Kate, and maybe even what he did to her mum.’

  ‘How far are you thinking of going?’

  Typical Ginger, to ask if he had planned a cut-off point. ‘As far as I need to – you can just stand there and look tough. Shouldn’t have much trouble doing that.’

  Ginger grinned. ‘I can look the part. And I’ll soon give him a pasting if I think he’s lying to us – but I ain’t toppin’ no one.’

  ‘Ginger! You’ve got kids. I wouldn’t get you into that sort of trouble. I’ll be honest, I want to murder him. But that’s something I can do all on me own.’

  ‘You silly sod, you don’t even think that! Hear me?’

  Johnny nodded and stopped. The whiff from Billingsgate fish market told him they were near. It wasn’t easy to find but eventually they came to a narrow alleyway, leading to a tall house with a bow window jutting over the river. They had come to the office of Archie’s fur business. It was in darkness, along with most other buildings in the street.

  ‘Don’t look like there’s anyone in,’ Ginger observed.

  Johnny tried the door and, looking both ways along the street, he shoulder-barged it, bouncing back into Ginger’s arms.

  ‘Get out me way, you young streak o’ piss.’ Ginger grinned and hustled him aside, aiming his booted foot at the door. With one kick, the ancient lock gave way and the two hurried in. The main office, overlooking the Thames, was obviously empty and a search of the accounting and sales rooms also proved fruitless. But in a small downstairs cloakroom Johnny found something. He called to Ginger, who peered into a sink, stained with faint streaks of blood. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘We’ve missed him, damn it!’ Johnny thumped the cloakroom door.

  ‘All right, well, where would he go next? Home?’

  Johnny blew out a long breath. He really didn’t know. The mind of Archie Goss, a man who would kill his wife and batter his daughter, was closed to him. ‘Let’s have a better look round here. Maybe he’s changed his clothes. If we could find a bit of bloody clothing, that might be evidence.’

  But the streaks in the sink were the only signs Archie had left of his guilt, and even they could be explained away by something as innocent as a nosebleed.

  They decided to go to Belgravia next and took the underground from Mark Lane station. After rousing the maid from her bed, they were told that Archie was abroad on a business trip and had been gone for some days. Johnny pushed past her.

  ‘He ain’t here! I told you.’ She pulled her dressing gown close around her. ‘Are you from that loan shark feller?’

  Johnny turned back. ‘What’s his name?’ The maid took a step back and Johnny smiled at her. ‘We’re not here to hurt you, miss. We just need to speak to Mr Grainger.’

  ‘You and half the world,’ she said, but seemed to soften at Johnny’s smile.

  ‘This loan shark…’

  ‘I don’t know his name. But he’s got the same colour hair as him.’ She pointed at Ginger. ‘Spots all over his face, crooked brown teeth. Right charmer.’

  ‘Thanks, love. Can we have a look round, then?’ Johnny smiled again.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’m going downstairs for a cuppa. When you’re finished, you can come and have one too if you like – but don’t bring him.’ She nodded towards Ginger and Johnny winked at her.

  There was no sign of Archie at the Belgravia house, and Johnny didn’t stop for tea. They continued their search at Archie’s club, slipping the doorman ten bob only to find that Archie wasn’t there, and finally, they returned to the fur warehouses near his office. But with the city waking and the dawn rising pink over the Thames, they found themselves trudging back over Tower Bridge, defeated.

  At Dockhead, Johnny shook his friend’s hand and watched as Ginger turned his square, muscular frame in the direction of home, walking away with that distinctive rolling gait of his. Now Johnny turned in the opposite direction and headed for East Lane.

  The search, the certainty that he would have his hands around Archie’s throat by this morning, had saved him from thinking about what faced him at the hospital. But now he felt sick with apprehension. He went home to shave and change and then to Longbonnet’s. After years of viewing her as the madwoman at the end of the street, he found she had suddenly become a sane ally. But when she answered his knock, her anxious, hopeful expression told him she’d heard nothing. Neither had Sylvie and Sarah. Archie might turn up later at one of his sisters’, perhaps sniffing around for news of Kate, but Johnny couldn’t waste any more time hanging around in East Lane.

  He went out to the sound of Dockhead church bells ringing for early Mass. The main road was quiet and he jumped aboard a tram, just eager to be nearer Kate. The tram’s jolting, clanging progress up Tooley Street did nothing to calm his anxious stomach. But as he stared up at the sooty railway viaduct leading to London Bridge station, his murderous litany of the previous night transformed into a supplication and he prayed silently: let her live and I’ll let him live, let her live and I’ll let him live.

  It was Sunday, and far too early, of course, for visiting. He should have known the workings of the wards by now – his mother had spent enough time in Guy’s Hospital as her health had drained away with the drink. He stood outside at a tea stall and with other early risers and down-and-outs drank thick brown tea from thick white mugs. Hearing the everyday talk of men worried about finding a bed for the night somehow steadied his nerves. He found a phone box and dialled the number Martin had given him.

  ‘Mrs Cliffe? I’m sorry to ring so early, this is John Bacon – from the bookshop.’

  The woman’s clear, cultured voice repeated his name. Why should she have noticed him? ‘I’m a friend of Kate.’

  ‘Oh, yes, John! Our budding novelist.’ And then, realizing that the phone call had nothing to do with the bookshop, she asked, ‘Is there something wrong? Is it Martin?’

  ‘No, but he did say you might be able to help me. Kate’s been attacked and we think it was her father.’

  ‘Chibby? Dear God, I was afraid of something like this – but I hoped he wasn’t so vile as to target his own child… I blame myself. I should have protected her as well as Nora.’

  Johnny tried to reassure her and then asked, ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but I can’t find him. Have you got any idea where he might be?’

  He could hear Mrs Cliffe breathing and thinking; his money was going to run out soon and he was about to insert another penny in the slot. ‘I really need your help, if there’s anything you can do…’

  ‘Yes. I think I can help you. I’ll go to see Chibby’s solicitor first thing tomorrow. If anyone knows where to find him, it’ll be Mr Mordant. They’re joined at the hip – two of a kind, I’m afraid.’

  After the telephone call he felt suddenly cast adrift and walked towards the river. Drawn by the bells of Southwark Cathedral he almost went in, but instead descended the steps to the river, choosing the abiding Thames as a surer source of comfort. When he could finally get in to see Kate, he was taken by surprise. He’d expected she would be groggy, that the doctors might have news of a lengthy recovery. Surely if she’d roused herself enough to speak the name of her attacker, she should be conscious today
. But his whispered greeting could not wake her at all. When the staff nurse came on her round, she told him Kate hadn’t responded or spoken since that one word of yesterday – Dad.

  It was a sleep so sound that he was reminded of ‘Briar Rose’ – a tale from her beloved Grimm’s. Johnny shuddered. He wasn’t normally a man who prayed and yet he found himself, for the third time, creating a prayer, or perhaps it was a spell: if I kiss her she’ll wake up. He leaned forward and put his lips to her cheek. ‘Kate, it’s me, Johnny.’ He waited, searching her pale, beautiful face for a sign, but it was impassive as stone. So unlike his Kate, with her ever-changing, intelligent eyes, her mocking smile, her sudden kind expression. She slept on as he sat there, and eventually, he stood up and said goodbye. If he could not be the one to wake her, he would bring her the one who could.

  22

  A Faithful Knight and True

  Johnny had left it until mid-morning before phoning Mrs Cliffe. But now the telephone box at Dockhead was busy. He smoked a cigarette and dived into the box almost before the man had vacated it. Mrs Cliffe answered his call at the first ring and he could tell, just from her voice, that she had disappointing news.

  ‘I’m sorry, John, but it seems Chibby couldn’t have attacked Kate. He wasn’t even in the country! I went to see Mr Mordant and he insists that Chibby has been in France ever since I backed out – no doubt trying to hoodwink other poor fools into giving him money.’ Mrs Cliffe’s tone was uncharacteristically bitter.

  ‘So, you don’t believe it was Archie who attacked Kate?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, John, I do. But there’s not an ounce of proof; it will be her word against his. I’m afraid Chibby’s outfoxed us. Mordant said he’ll be travelling back from the continent today, but who knows what the truth is.’

  ‘But surely the police could check if he’s actually bought a ferry ticket?’

  Johnny heard a deep sigh down the telephone. ‘Chibby might have sailed out and back overnight.’

  ‘Or even sent someone else?’

  ‘Exactly. He is a very devious man.’

  ‘Well, I can’t do any good here. I think Martin should come back from Sussex.’

  ‘But what about Nora?’

  ‘I’ll swap places with him. Kate needs Martin.’

  ‘She’s no better, then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s still very soon, John. She will recover, I’m sure of it.’

  Johnny took no comfort in Mrs Cliffe’s words. He turned his back on the man outside the telephone box who was waiting for him to finish his call. ‘I know she will,’ he said, ‘I just think she’ll recover better if Martin’s with her. And I can guard Nora just as well as Martin can.’

  There was a second’s silence. ‘Very well, John. I’ll telephone Martin to expect you tomorrow.’

  *

  The following day Johnny packed a small bag, told Ginger he’d be away for a few days and then made his way to London Bridge station. He smoked a cigarette, staring at the departure board, thinking of Kate, only a stone’s throw away in Guy’s Hospital. He hadn’t planned on visiting her – what would be the point? It wasn’t him she needed. But the temptation proved too great and he decided he must see Kate one last time before leaving. He stowed his bag at left luggage and, dodging buses and taxis crowding around the station, he made his way to St Thomas’s Street. As he was crossing the hospital courtyard, he noticed someone standing under the entrance portico. He was the sort of man you took notice of. Tall, and obviously well-muscled beneath his dark, elegant clothes. Johnny turned towards the staircase leading up to the ward and stopped with his foot on the first step.

  It was him! Johnny hadn’t seen Archie Goss since he was a boy, but now he was sure he’d just glimpsed the man he’d searched half London for. He dashed back to the portico, now crowded with nurses in a flutter of blue-and-scarlet capes, coming off duty. Johnny parted them, apologizing, then wove through a stream of visitors. He searched every face for the tall, dark-suited man. But he’d gone.

  Damn. No! He couldn’t lose him now. He sped back to the staircase, leaping up stone steps till he reached the landing and Kate’s ward. He barged through double doors, shouldering aside visitors filing in quietly, and, ignoring the disapproving look of the ward sister, he rushed to the end bed.

  A man was bending over Kate, whispering into her ear. It was Archie Goss. Johnny launched himself at him. ‘Get away from her, you bastard!’ His hands gripped Archie’s throat and Johnny wrestled him to the ground, his fists flying fast as pistons, smashing into Archie’s shocked face until it was smeared with blood.

  The ward sister shouted for a porter to come quickly as visitors got to their feet, some standing protectively at their loved ones’ beds, others calling for Johnny to stop. The two men tumbled along the ward, scattering chairs and visitors as they went until Johnny felt hands grabbing him. A porter and a burly visitor together pulled him off Archie, who staggered to his feet, brushing down his suit trousers and straightening his waistcoat.

  ‘This is disgraceful behaviour!’ The ward sister stood tall and imposing in her dark blue bustled uniform. Her face red with anger, she turned on Johnny. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m protecting her from that man!’ Deep breaths raked his chest.

  The sister gave him a look that might have cowed the nurses beneath her, but couldn’t stop him from struggling with the porter. The sister turned to Archie. ‘Would you like me to call the police?’

  Archie wiped his bloody nose with a handkerchief and fixed Johnny with an almost amused look. Arrogant, assured eyes assessed him – but at least Johnny had the satisfaction of knowing there’d be purple rings around them before too long.

  ‘No need for the police, Sister,’ Archie said calmly, ‘but I’d appreciate some time alone with my daughter.’ He gave the sister a smile, which revealed a bleeding split gum.

  ‘Keep your hands off her, Goss!’ Johnny shouted, and the sister nodded to the porter.

  ‘You’ll have to leave, now, sir.’

  As the porter hustled him away, Johnny said, ‘I want you to call the police, Sister! This man’s put Kate in here. I won’t leave till you get a copper!’

  Archie put a hand on the sister’s arm. ‘This young man is clearly very upset. I’m quite happy to leave – for now. Provided he does too.’

  The sister saw the eyes of the ward switch from the scene going on around Kate’s bed to the other end of the ward, from which the matron was fast approaching. She looked furious. ‘Sister! I can hear the noise all the way over in the next ward!’

  ‘Very well,’ the sister said to them quietly. ‘Go, both of you. Now!’

  The porter escorted them out of the hospital, watching them walk across the courtyard and out of the gates. Johnny groaned inwardly at his impetuous stupidity. His temper could have cost Kate dear. Now he’d tipped Archie off to their suspicions, the man would be doubly careful, perhaps doubly vengeful. But at least Kate was out of his reach – for now.

  Once outside the gates Johnny turned to Archie. Shoving his face close to the other man’s, he warned, ‘You keep away from her, do you hear me?’

  Archie flinched, though he didn’t retreat. ‘Ah! I remember you now, you’re Rasher Bacon! Your mother was that disgusting, drunken slut who couldn’t be bothered to wipe the snot from your nose when you were a ragged-arsed kid. She was anybody’s for the price of a gin.’

  Archie’s cold eyes were mocking. He wanted Johnny to swing again; here in the anonymous street it would be easier for him to strike back.

  ‘Listen to me, you vicious bastard. I know you hurt Kate. And I know why. And I’m going to the police about it. Why don’t you come down Tower Bridge nick with me right now and accuse me of assault?’ Johnny grinned, knowing Archie couldn’t risk that much scrutiny.

  For answer, Archie reached inside his jacket and pulled out a ticket stub. ‘Accuse me of whatever you like. I came here as soon as I arrived back h
ome from the continent. Why wouldn’t I want to be at the bedside of my daughter? And I don’t see how I could have been involved in her accident when I was out of the country!’ He smiled confidently, but the muscles of his jaw were working hard. And Johnny knew that Archie Goss was rattled.

  *

  Kate had known he was there. He had kissed her. His name she couldn’t remember, but she remembered his kisses. She’d wanted to wake up then, wanted to say his name. But she wasn’t in a place where things could be named. Words were part of another life, the one beyond this fog, this continual searching for something lost. That feeling was at least familiar, something she could understand. It had always been with her: the seeking, the questioning. But as her mind roamed in this place without signposts, the past and the present and the future merged into one accusing presence, admonishing her over and over for asking all those questions. She felt regret. Why had she insisted on asking about him? She called him Dad, though he had another name. Why had she demanded answers? Even when whatsername, her aunt, had warned her it would cause only grief. She’d been right all along. The only certainty Kate had in this liminal place was that the longed-for man – Dad – had returned, not to love her, but to kill her, as he’d killed the other one. The woman who’d held her tight and read stories of monsters and promised that they were only fairy tales. She couldn’t remember her name either. But she was someone, like herself, who’d been harmed by Archie Goss. And then, with a sharp pang of remembrance, she knew who that woman had been – her mum.

  Now she felt water trickling down her cheeks and tried to blink. The light hurt and a shadow passed across it. She was grateful. The shadow took the pain away. She blinked again and saw that the shadow was shaped like a man. Forcing her lids open, she concentrated very hard. He was saying something, low, like a hiss, words she couldn’t understand and others she could. ‘Katy… d’you hear me? I swear if you tell… I’ll make sure you sleep forever… hear me?’