Generations of Love

by Wendy Pulford

  *

  Christa had worked late on a particular story which for days she could never seem to quite complete to her satisfaction. Tonight, however, she had felt inspiration and had stayed on to finish the article before her ideas left her again.

  Walking the couple of streets from the Tube to her flat, she welcomed the fresh air clearing the stuffiness from her head. Taking her keys from her bag, she heard steps behind her, and then felt a push in her back. As she stumbled, hands grabbed her bag. She clung on as hard as she could, and screamed. A light came on in a porch further up the road and someone called out.

  ‘Help me!’ Christa shouted with the remaining breath left in her. ‘Get the police! I’m being attacked!’

  Other lights came on, but by now Christa was on her knees and in the end had to give up the unequal struggle and release her grip on the bag. The dark figure ran off back down the road. Christa was trying to get her breath when a woman’s voice spoke to her.

  ‘Are you alright, my dear? The police are on their way. Can you stand up?’

  With assistance, Christa made it to her feet. She was taken inside a nearby house to await the police. When they arrived she found there was little information she could give them. They took details of her assailant, as much as she knew, and also her bag and its contents. She had to think about this. Why could you never remember what you carried around with you on a daily basis? Asked about a phone, she remembered that this was in the side pocket of her coat. That was something, at least.

  She declined the need for any medical treatment or a lift home, but now, looking out into the darkness, even the distance of a couple of streets seemed daunting. She wanted Peter. With shaking fingers she rang his number.

  CHAPTER 17

  Peter was enjoying Luigi’s description of a telephone call received that afternoon from his granddaughter. They were just finishing a meal together, a last-minute arrangement in order to bring Luigi up to date on his change of career.

  Luigi was making him laugh, trying to mimic the young girl’s chatter, when Peter’s phone rang. On answering it, his laughter faded.

  ‘God!… Damn the handbag, are you alright, Christa?’

  He saw Luigi watching him, now concerned.

  ‘OK, Christa. I’m coming for you. What’s the address?’ He listened for a moment. ‘I’ll get a taxi and be right round. You’re sure you’re not hurt?… I’m on my way.’

  He closed the call and looked at Luigi.

  ‘Christa’s been mugged on her way home. Someone’s taken her handbag. I need a taxi.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  *

  Peter was not satisfied until Christa was tucked up in bed after a warm bath and a hot drink. She seemed quite controlled, but shock was a funny thing. By the time he and Luigi had reached her she had made a phone call to arrange for her cards to be cancelled. There was nothing else of real importance in the bag, she told him; it was more of a nuisance. What a blessing she had kept her phone elsewhere.

  Once Luigi had seen Christa was unharmed, he took his leave.

  Peter rang the McIntyres and spoke to Jerry, telling him what had happened and that he would spend the night with Christa. Jerry offered to come round and check her over, but Peter decided that was not necessary.

  ‘Everyone has been so kind.’ Christa was sipping her drink, propped up on her pillows.

  Peter sat on the side of the bed and took her hand. He felt immense relief that she seemed unaffected by her ordeal, and also a quiet pleasure from the knowledge that he was the first person she thought to ring when she was in trouble. The more he saw of her, it was now registering, the more she meant to him.

  ‘You’re easy to be kind to,’ he smiled, kissing the tip of her nose. Then he said the words he knew he must, dreading her response. ‘Christa, if you decided you wanted to go back home to Canada, I’d quite understand.’

  She reached up and stroked his cheek. ‘Don’t be silly, I’ve no intention of going.’

  He opened his mouth to make his point again, but she placed a finger against his lips and shook her head. Relenting, and trying to hide his relief, he smiled at her, sliding his hand down the warm skin of her back.

  ‘Now you’ve rested a bit, how do you feel?’

  She looked at him, her brown eyes soft and warm. ‘I’d feel much better if you came to bed.’

  He took the unfinished drink from her, and folded her in his arms, his mouth covering hers. ‘Let’s see if that’s true, shall we,’ he murmured.

  *

  ‘I don’t know what you expect me to do. I’m not taking that sort of message to him.’

  Villiers had been surprised, and not a little annoyed, at the sudden arrival of Johnny Clarke. It was fortunate that his wife was not at home tonight.

  Clarke was pacing up and down the large sitting room, leaving dirty footprints on the Indian rug in front of the fireplace. Then he stopped and gestured around at the elegant furnishings.

  ‘Looks like you’ve done very well for yourself over the years. I’m the one asked to do all the nasty jobs, and in my view, I’ve been paid a pittance in comparison. Franklin sits there on high just issuing instructions, like last night. Just do this, just do that.’

  ‘You get paid for it.’

  ‘Yes, but not as much as others make out of it, I bet.’ Clarke threw another look around the well-appointed room. ‘He didn’t do much to help when I got banged up, did he. I’m sure he could have oiled some wheels if he’d wanted, but he didn’t. Well, he’d better not forget that I know quite a bit about him, things certain people would be very interested in.’

  Villiers began to worry. If Clarke was serious in his threat and he brought Franklin down, he would fall as well.

  ‘Alright, I’ll speak with him. Don’t go and do anything stupid, for God’s sake.’

  Unasked, Clarke helped himself to a whisky from the cut-glass decanter on the sideboard.

  ‘That’s up to you then, isn’t it.’

  With an insolent smile, he gave a mock salute and walked out. Villiers watched him leave and then sat down in the plush armchair, trying to control the sudden shaking in his legs.

  *

  Dougie was getting nowhere. This was the third and last of the betting shops owned by Clarke, and it was almost closing time. He was using the story of looking up a friend of a friend to pass on a message about a death. His main problem was that most of the current staff were too young to remember more than a few years back. He used the scant information Monty had imparted to him, but with not even a name to go on the task was looking impossible.

  One older-looking man tapped his forehead.

  ‘There’s something I remember, when I did a Saturday job here as a lad, about one chap who was always in and out at odd times. The others used to grumble a bit about it. I think the story was that he was in poor health.’

  ‘Can you remember a name? It’s important.’

  Dougie was hoping against hope. He was running out of ideas.

  ‘I know it was a common sort of Christian name. I just can’t remember it though. Sorry.’

  With a sigh, and a mumbled ‘Thanks’, Dougie turned for the door, all but colliding with an elderly man who was hovering in the doorway. As he left the premises, the man watched him go.

  What to do now, that was the question. It was two days since his enquiries had come to a full stop, and Dougie was back at his old haunt. Maybe he would see Ron Henshaw again, ask him to put some more pressure on Monty to give him a name. Failing that, he might have to speak with his superiors to see if there was a case for getting Clarke in for a chat, but he rather doubted that anyone would give his enquiry serious consideration.

  Deep in thought, he failed to notice the man he had collided with in the betting shop sitting in a far corner. The man rose, went to the bar, and asked to use the
telephone. After finishing his short call he had a word with the landlord, and without another look left the pub.

  It was time to go home. Two pints was Dougie’s limit these days. Feeling rather despondent he shrugged into his coat, and drained the last dregs from his glass. He became conscious of a man in the long black robes of a priest talking to the landlord; they were both looking his way. Did they think he was in need of saving! He watched as the priest moved over to him through the tables.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Sergeant Johnson?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Father.’

  ‘May I sit down for a moment?’

  Dougie wondered what all this was about, but pointed to an empty chair.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Sergeant, I have a man over at my church who has asked to speak with you. He says he has to pass on some important information, and it has to be right now. The poor man has terminal cancer, with not much longer to go.’

  ‘This isn’t my patch, Father. He needs to speak with someone local.’

  ‘He says you’ve been seen in here over a long period of time. People know who you are. He says it must be you, no one else.’

  Dougie was intrigued. ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘His name is Harry.’

  It meant nothing to Dougie. With a resigned sigh he stood and motioned for the priest to lead the way.

  ‘Right. Come on then, Father, let’s see this Harry of yours.’

  They crossed the road and entered the church. The priest led him to a pew at the back, tucked in a corner. A man sat there huddled in a thick coat, but on their approached he looked up. As far as Dougie could remember he had never seen this person before, but then the man’s own mother might have had trouble recognising him. His face was thin and shrunken, the skin drawn tight, with a yellowish sheen. His eyes were dark and sunken into his skull. Not much longer to go, alright.

  ‘I’m Sergeant Johnson. You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Someone from the old days thinks maybe you’re asking after me. He knows you’re the law.’ The voice was low-pitched and harsh. ‘The bastard thought he could make a bob or two by threatening to inform on me. Years ago I’d have rewarded him in a way he would have regretted, the f—’ He looked up at the priest and gave a sigh. ‘Then I got to thinking about it, and perhaps it’s as it should be, just in time. I need to tell you something, before it’s too late.’

  Dougie sat down on the pew next to the man. The priest made to move away, but the man reached out a thin hand and stopped him.

  ‘No, Father, I’d like you to stay if you will.’

  ‘By all means, my son.’ The priest joined Dougie on the pew, the other side of the man.

  ‘I suppose during all these years I wondered if anyone would come for me. This thing’s been gnawing away at my insides, much like the cancer, and I can’t get it out of my mind.’

  Dougie recognised that sort of feeling. Then something registered in his mind – ‘Ordinary Christian name, nothing fancy’ – and he began to concentrate harder.

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  The man began, as if giving a formal statement, with his full name and address. ‘My name’s Harry Fowler. I live at 32 Statham Road, Plaistow.’ After a pause, he went on, ‘I killed a young girl many years ago now, and I still can’t get it out of my mind.’

  Dougie felt the hairs standing up all over his body. Could it be…!

  CHAPTER 18

  Fowler seemed to gather himself and then he began his story.

  ‘I worked as an enforcer for Johnny Clarke back in the seventies and eighties. You’re still the law, and the word is you used to be in Special Branch. This job I’m going to tell you about was something to do with another Special Branch officer.’

  Dougie was sure now, and a feeling, cold as ice, began to form inside him. His hands started to tremble.

  ‘Clarke had instructions from someone for a job. He called me in. I was good at my work, and if I was given a free hand I would craft it just like any other professional, but this job had to be done one way. I was given strict instructions – no deviation. That’s where the amateur goes wrong. Things can always happen you don’t allow for, just like it did here. Anyway, I was to await further instructions on when the job had to be dealt with. As it turned out, it was at short notice.

  ‘I was given something else to do that night as well, a rush job. A car accident that was to look genuine, with a definite fatality. Unknown to the victim he’d been given a small amount of slow-acting sedative, to dull his responses. The vehicle caught fire after the crash. Even better as far as I was concerned.

  ‘I then had to get back into town to put this other operation into effect. I’d been given a key to enter a particular property, and papers to leave about the premises. I was supposed to surprise the occupants, disable a male police officer with a heavy ornament which I was told where to find, and while he was unconscious, kill his wife. It went well at first. I got in with no problem, and upstairs without being heard. The man became aware of me but I was able to use the ornament and he went down. Should have been out of it for hours. The woman woke up and, I thought, was about to scream. I didn’t want any sound. I grabbed the pillow as instructed, and…’

  Fowler stopped and bent his head. The priest put an arm round his shoulders. Dougie by this time had a far different urge, and half-rose out of his seat. He then remembered where they were, and tried to subdue his feelings.

  ‘I saw her face looking up at me. She was young and beautiful with large green eyes. She can’t have failed to know what was coming. In the end, she made no sound, and didn’t even struggle. But the sadness in those eyes… I can’t forget.’

  Hearing these words Dougie had difficulty in restraining himself. His hands were balled into fists, which he ached to use.

  Fowler glanced at the priest before he continued.

  ‘I had my orders, but somehow I knew I couldn’t do it to her while she was conscious. I hit her and knocked her out, then I did it. I’d been told to put the ornament in her hand to make sure her prints were on it. I was to go downstairs and leave the papers I’d been given, and then get out. I was under strict instructions not to touch the baby.’

  He looked over at the priest again, who patted his shoulder.

  ‘I’d just dealt with the papers and was going back to the front door when I looked up and the copper was coming down the stairs with a gun in his hand. How he was even on his feet, I’ve no idea; he must have been in one hell of a state. I’d been warned, no firearms, but I never go anywhere without one. The copper fired at me but missed. He must have had a job to even see straight. I wasn’t going to let him get in another shot that might be lucky, so I fired back. He fell down the stairs and hit his head one hell of a crack on the banister. I had to get away, so I just let myself out again.’

  ‘You evil bastard!’ Dougie’s voice was a low snarl. ‘That officer was my friend and colleague, and one of the best. But we’re fair game to the likes of you. The little girl, though, she’d done you no harm. She was a young mother with her baby sleeping in the next room.’

  He stood and picked the other man up by his coat and shook him.

  ‘I’ll see you rot in Hell for this.’

  The priest intervened. ‘Gentlemen, please, remember where you are!’

  Dougie released Fowler back onto the pew and ground out, ‘A church is no place for the likes of him. He deserves the worst anyone can throw at him.’

  Fowler’s smile had little mirth. ‘That might happen to me yet, but perhaps my judgment has already begun. I know it’s near the end now, and maybe I can make some sort of amends by telling what I know.’

  Dougie tried to calm himself and think.

  ‘You said that Clarke was instructed by someone else to do this job. Do you know who?’

  ‘No. I gather Clarke had
done work for him before and gave me the impression that he was someone high up with a bit of influence. Whoever it was had got a key to the property, and most of the papers appeared to be bank statements. I read in the newspaper report that this copper was supposed to be accepting bribes, which I assume were shown up in the statements. He was a bit stupid to pay things into a bank, if you ask me. Was he bent?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’

  ‘So it was a frame-up, then, and the bank statements were crooked. That’s what I mean: someone with influence.’

  Dougie slumped back in the pew. Yes, someone with a lawyer and a banker as friends. God! So Alex had been right! Franklin wasn’t above destroying his own flesh and blood for whatever his devious mind was dreaming up. What was the point here, though? It was obvious the plan was for Alex to be framed for his wife’s murder and disgraced in his profession. What did that leave for Franklin? The child? That was it! Of course, Franklin needed the child: it meant he could keep the money under his control. Catherine had failed him, so it was the turn of her child. Plus he would have revenge on Alex, who would languish in prison for a murder he didn’t commit, also knowing that his child was being influenced by the instigator. Alex would have gone out of his mind!

  ‘What other jobs have you done? Have you ever worked for Jack Ellison?’

  ‘Not Ellison. He never had any use for my, er… talents. He packed everything up in London years ago. He’s found more lucrative pastures abroad, so I’m told.’

  ‘What do you know about a Joe Fenton?’

  Fowler gave him a shrewd look. ‘Yes, that was one of mine. Clarke was sore at Ellison for side-stepping a fixer Clarke had planned for him. He thought he was tipped off by Fenton, influenced by that copper.’

  ‘How about a young prostitute, Lucille Prentice?’

  ‘Well, you’re going back a bit now, aren’t you? Yes, I can remember that. She was a favourite of Clarke’s but he thought she’d split on him. I was following her on his orders. Saw her with that same copper. She was a junkie, anyway.’