Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘Where is Tony anyway?’ Babs said.

  ‘I told you at Christmas, I don’t know.’

  ‘You told me at Christmas you were gonna find out.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t.’

  The pram lurched on worn ground. Babs adjusted her course.

  ‘Have you tried?’ she asked.

  Polly was out of breath and put a hand on the pram handle to slow it down.

  She had no compelling need to confide in Babs, to confess that she had taken Tony Lombard as a lover. In recent years Babs’s loyalty to Jackie Hallop had made her stuffy and curiously moralistic. She would not approve of adultery, would not regard it as a romantic adventure, not now.

  Polly had a sneaking feeling that Babs was right, that what she believed to be love was nothing but a shabby substitute for children who bored her and a husband who kept her at arm’s length.

  ‘Yes,’ Polly answered. ‘I did have lunch with MacGregor.’

  ‘I hope you’re not gonna nick him from Rosie.’

  ‘How dare you say that! As if I would.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you would,’ said Babs. ‘If it suited you, you would.’

  ‘You don’t have much of an opinion of me, do you, Babs?’

  ‘You’re my sister: I’m stuck with you,’ Babs said, shrugging lightly. ‘What did MacGregor tell you?’

  ‘Not much. He’s looking for two suspects.’

  ‘I thought the CID would have enough suspects to be goin’ on with.’

  ‘Don’t play the fool, Babs. Two specific suspects.’

  ‘What’re they suspected of?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Did he tell you who they were?’

  ‘One of them’s a girl.’

  ‘Hah!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Polly.

  ‘Is that who Tony’s with right now?’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions awfully damned quickly, aren’t you?’

  ‘It’s Tony Lombard you’re really worried about, isn’t it, not Dominic?’

  ‘I – I’m worried about the future.’

  ‘Well, sis, you ain’t the only one,’ said Babs. ‘Why d’ you think I’m learning to drive? It’s in case this bloody war does come an’ we’re left holdin’ the baby.’ Babs checked the charge of the perambulator, applied the footbrake and, head cocked, contemplated her sister. ‘We’re not flirty wee girls any more, Poll. We’re not Mammy’s little rays of sunshine. I got four kids an’ a bungalow in Raines Drive. You – you’ve got a pearl in every oyster, plus two kids an’ a husband who can make money fall down outta the sky. Look at us, for God sake! None of this is gonna last. Funny thing is, I don’t think it even deserves to last. You got me?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t got you.’

  Babs sighed. ‘Whether it does or doesn’t, I’m not gonna let any of it go without a fight.’ She took a step towards her sister and planted her hands on her hips as if the conversation had suddenly become a quarrel. ‘They’re closin’ in from all sides, Polly. I don’t mean the damned Jerries. I mean the law. They’re after your Dominic an’ that means they’ll get my Jackie in the process – unless we do somethin’ about it.’

  ‘What can we do about it?’ said Polly.

  She spoke wearily, not warily. She didn’t resent being dressed down by her young sister for Babs’s selfishness had point and whatever she decided to do would benefit her husband and children. Mammy all over again: Mammy’s struggle writ large. For an instant Polly felt shame, then a grey, annealing weariness stole over her once more, a pervasive sense that time had stopped and there was nothing she could do to make it start up again.

  ‘Be ready to take over,’ Babs said.

  ‘Take over?’

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Polly Conway? Is the gin gettin’ to your brain at last? Listen. Listen to me: we’re married to crooks, to criminals. There’s no good blinkin’ that fact. Hell’s bells, I’m no more honest at heart than our Jackie, though I hope I do know where t’ draw the line.’ Babs folded her arms across her bosom and though there was no one else in The Round at that early hour in the afternoon, lowered her voice to a near whisper. ‘Rosie’s detective is sure on to somethin’ an’ it’s not somethin’ small either. There’s money bein’ made, or about to be made, an’ it’s real money this time.’

  In spite of herself, Polly nodded agreement.

  ‘This isn’t a wad o’ banknotes stuffed into a cocoa tin,’ Babs went on. ‘This is sackfuls o’ the stuff – an’ that’s not countin’ what you could realise by liquidatin’ Dominic’s assets.’

  ‘Is it Jackie who’s put you up to this?’ Polly said.

  ‘Jackie! God, Jackie wouldn’t know an asset if he sat on one,’ Babs said. ‘I mean, he still doesn’t know what an asset I am an’ I’ve been with him for ten years. Listen. Listen to me, Polly: have you forgotten what went on wi’ Mammy all those years ago, all that rubbish about her bein’ in the Manones’ debt?’

  ‘That was a mistake, a misunderstanding.’

  ‘Was it hell!’

  ‘In any case, it’s water under the bridge,’ said Polly.

  She still felt grey and detached but in Babs’s vehemence she recognised some of the anger that had been in her too over the past months, a strange sourceless anger that found no focus of expression, none, that is, except the betrayal of her marriage vows. She felt the muscles at the back of her calves tremble slightly, her mouth become dry. What had she done? She had allowed Tony Lombard to become her lover without knowing whether or not he loved her. She had made promises not to Tony but to a stranger, promises that for all their shambolic confusion had more to do with her family than the Manones.

  Now Babs was standing up to her. Babs was telling her that there were debts to collect as well as debts to pay and that she must be prepared to call them in.

  ‘They won’t be here much longer, you know,’ Babs said. ‘They’ll go the way Daddy went all those years ago, leavin you an’ me an’ six kiddies to fend for ourselves. Haven’t you thought about that, Polly?’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘God, yes, of course I have.’

  ‘So what are you gonna do about it?’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ Polly said.

  ‘Sell out,’ said Babs. ‘As soon as the boys are gone, sell out.’

  ‘Sell out what, though?’

  ‘Everything we can lay our hands on, you an’ me together.’

  ‘Sell out to whom? I mean, who’d buy from us on a buyer’s market?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that too,’ said Babs.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘John Flint.’

  And Polly, wide awake, said, ‘Yes.’

  * * *

  ‘I have reason to believe,’ said Kenny, ‘that your wife’s first husband is still alive.’

  Bernard felt his heart lurch and a wave of nausea rise from the region of his stomach. He had been seated in Shakespeare’s chair, trying to pretend that he was entirely unruffled by the sergeant’s arrival. He’d expected questions, of course, questions about the operation of Lyons & Lloyd’s and Dominic’s other business interests, perhaps about Rosie, Rosie’s past, Rosie’s infirmity, but he hadn’t expected this sudden shattering blow. He put his hand to his mouth, clenched his fist, and gawked, bug-eyed, at the Highlander.

  ‘Not only still alive, Mr Peabody, but actually back in this country.’

  ‘How – how…’

  ‘How do we know?’

  Bernard managed to nod.

  ‘Are you all right, sir,’ Kenny said. ‘You look terrible.’

  Bernard managed to nod again.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come right out with it, should I?’ Kenny said. ‘I didn’t know what else to do, you see, who else to turn to.’

  ‘G-go on,’ Bernard whispered. ‘Tell me what you’ve f-found out.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t located the gentleman in question,’ said Kenny.

  ‘Then h-how can yo
u be sure it is Frank Conway?’

  ‘Can’t,’ said Kenny. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Bernard slid his arms on to the desk. In the office outside one of the telephones was ringing, distant and detached. Sandra would fend off the caller for, like most girls of her class, she had inordinate respect for the forces of law and order and would ensure that he and the policeman were not disturbed. The thought glided past almost unnoticed as he slumped across the desk, heart thumping and a hand still clamped to his mouth. Kenny shifted uncomfortably in an upright chair, embarrassed by his victim’s distress.

  Bernard tried to collect himself, to square up to the possibility that the detective was in effect a sadist, that there was no substance to the rumour that Frank Conway had returned from the dead.

  ‘I take it you don’t have Conway under arrest?’ Bernard said.

  ‘I wish we did.’ Shaking his head, Kenny revised his statement. ‘No, that’s not true. It’s probably just as well that we haven’t caught him yet. If and when we do lay hands on him we’ll need positive identification and that’ll mean approaching Mrs Con – Mrs Peabody, I mean.’

  Bernard lifted his head a little. ‘You want me to break the news, is that it?’

  ‘Lord, no,’ Kenny said. ‘I don’t want anyone to break the news to – well, to anyone.’

  ‘Least of all to Rosie?’ Bernard sat up. ‘Is that why you’ve come to me first?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kenny said. ‘I don’t want Rosie blaming me for her father’s arrest.’

  ‘What’s he supposed to have done?’ Bernard said.

  Kenny glanced down at his hands folded in his lap. ‘I thought you might be in a position to tell me.’

  ‘Well, I’m not,’ said Bernard.

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Nope, never met the man in my life. He was long gone before I encountered Lizzie and her girls.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t recognise him if you saw him?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know him from Adam.’ Bernard was breathing more easily now and his heart had returned to its normal rhythm. ‘Are you absolutely certain the chap you’re chasing is Frank Conway?’

  ‘Almost certain.’

  ‘Who gave you the lead? Who recognised him?’

  Kenny hesitated. ‘Janet McKerlie.’

  ‘Janet! She hasn’t been in touch for years. Wanted nothing to do with us after her mother died. How in God’s name did Janet get mixed up in all this?’

  ‘We’re more thorough in the CID than you give us credit for,’ Kenny said. ‘Perhaps you’ve met Conway without knowing it. I’ll show you a photograph, see what you make of it.’

  The photograph was produced, examined, returned.

  ‘Sorry,’ Bernard said. ‘Never met him. That’s the truth.’

  ‘What about this lady?’

  Kenny placed the photograph of the girl on the desk.

  Bernard didn’t have the inbred shutter-like defence that the Italians had perfected. He could not help but blink. He knew the policeman was watching him closely and did his level best to remain inscrutable – but it was too late.

  Kenny said, ‘You do know her, don’t you, Bernard?’

  ‘I – I don’t know her name.’

  ‘Do you know where we can find her?’

  ‘What’s she got to do with Conway?’

  ‘We’ve reason to believe that she’s his wife.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Kenny said. ‘Complicated, isn’t it?’

  ‘God in Heaven!’ Bernard said. ‘Complicated isn’t the word for it. Are you telling me that Frank Conway got married again. If he’s still in the land of the living he’s still officially married to my Lizzie. It was assumed he’d joined the army and had been killed in the war. Lizzie couldn’t prove it, though, for there was no record of him with any of the regiments.’ Bernard reached for the snapshot. ‘Is that moustache genuine?’

  ‘We believe it might be.’

  ‘You don’t seem exactly sure of anything, do you? I mean, it’s all “we believe this, we believe that”. Just how much do you have on Conway? And what’s he doing back in Scotland? If this young filly is Conway’s wife then I doubt very much if he’s come back to reclaim Lizzie.’

  ‘Where did you meet the girl?’ Kenny asked.

  ‘I only saw her once.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Week or two before Christmas.’

  ‘With Dominic?’

  He was cornered. He had to decide very quickly what would wash with the facts that MacGregor already had in his possession. He couldn’t put Rosie and Lizzie out of his mind, though, the dreadful effect that the news would have upon them. He had never doubted that Lizzie loved him, didn’t doubt that she would continue to love him, but if Frank Conway wasn’t dead, if Frank Conway was liable to stroll into their lives at any moment …

  ‘Yes, with Dominic,’ Bernard heard himself say.

  ‘Where did this meeting take place?’

  ‘He brought her here, a week or two before Christmas.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. He just did.’

  ‘How did he introduce her?’ Kenny said.

  ‘He didn’t. He just said that she was a friend.’

  ‘Did he have any conversation with Mr Shakespeare?’

  ‘No, Allan was out at the time.’

  ‘I see,’ Kenny said. ‘Dominic arrived here with the girl, brought her into the office, didn’t introduce you, and left again?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened.’

  ‘How did he travel to Breslin?’

  ‘By – by motorcar,’ Bernard said. ‘I think.’

  ‘Did you see the motorcar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you don’t know if anyone else was with them in the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tony Lombard, say?’

  Bernard shook his head.

  Kenny said, ‘What did Manone really want? A house, a property? Did you find one for him, Bernard? Did you offer him one off the books?’

  ‘No,’ Bernard said. ‘No, no.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Kenny said, ‘but I don’t think you’re telling the truth.’

  ‘I am, I am,’ said Bernard. ‘What reason have I got to lie?’

  ‘Plenty of reason. For one thing, you work for Dominic Manone.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ Bernard said. ‘I mean, for God’s sake, you come waltzin’ in here, tell me my marriage is liable to go up in smoke and Rosie is liable to find out she’s got a crook for a father…’

  ‘She’s already got a crook for a brother-in-law,’ Kenny put in.

  ‘No,’ Bernard said. ‘No, no, no, no. I know where my loyalties lie. If it comes to protecting Lizzie and her girls or Dominic Manone then there’s no question, no question at all, which way I’ll go.’ He sat up straight, palms pressed down on the desk. ‘I’m not the only one in a cleft stick, am I? I think that’s why you’ve come here to see me on your own. You haven’t told your bosses in the CID about Conway yet, have you, Kenny?’

  ‘He calls himself Harker now.’

  ‘Harker, huh!’

  ‘Edgar Harker,’ Kenny said. ‘He’s been one of Carlo Manone’s henchmen in Philadelphia for years. Whether he fought in the war or whether he didn’t is something we haven’t discovered. We’ve asked the Philadelphia police department and the Federal Bureau in Washington to post us anything they may have on Harker. We’ll know more about him when the information arrives, probably.’

  ‘Rosie will hate you for doing this to her.’

  ‘I know,’ Kenny said. ‘You’re right, Bernard. I haven’t told anyone in the office who Harker really is. If – and it’s a long shot – if I can get him out of Scotland, have him arrested elsewhere, then none of it may come out. Trouble is that Harker and Dominic Manone are working hand in glove and our department’s under terrible pressure to put a stop to their activities.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Bernar
d said.

  ‘It isn’t a local matter,’ Kenny said. ‘It’s a Home Office issue.’

  ‘Home Office?’

  ‘A matter of security.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ Bernard said.

  ‘We have reason to believe – sorry, but we do – that Dominic’s working for or with the man who used to be Frank Conway.’

  ‘And who’s Conway working for?’

  ‘Hitler,’ Kenny said.

  ‘Hitler?’ Bernard said. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Or one of his Nazi cohorts,’ Kenny said. ‘Now do you see my problem?’

  ‘Oh, aye,’ said Bernard. ‘I do.’

  * * *

  Over the curve of the field just where it ran into moorland a band of cornflower-blue sky had opened up in the cloud cover. Later in the evening there would be a sunset worth watching, one of those brooding, melancholy explosions of crimson and orange that might lead you to suppose that Arran’s dormant volcanoes had surged awake to spew lava into the Firth and shoot great gouts of fiery trash into the heavens above Clydebank. From the attic skylight Tony would look out at the spectacle, would wonder if Polly was watching too or if, as she often did, she’d had the maid close the curtains early.

  He walked out with Penny only because he didn’t trust her, not when she had the .22 tucked under her arm and her trousers stuffed into the tops of a pair of his woollen stockings and galoshettes flapping on her big, inelegant feet.

  She was, he reckoned, such an eccentric sight that any nosy official from the Civil Defence squadron in Hardgate who happened to be wandering in the area wouldn’t forget her in a hurry or be inclined to swallow whatever tale she told him to explain what she was doing on Blackstone Farm.

  He accompanied her over the cobbles of the yard, through the gate and into the wet, empty pasture, walking not by but behind her. Only when they were out of range of the farmhouse did she break step and, loitering, wait for him to catch up and, as he had feared she would, held out her hand.

  The gun butt was pressed against her breast, stock cradled in her right hand. In that pose she looked every inch a hunter. He could just imagine her out with the menfolk in search of wild goats or boar in the wooded country north of Barga that his old man had told him about.