He went over to the window. Outside, a fine drizzle was falling on the empty streets. Even before the war, the shops and pubs in the little country town were always closed on the Sabbath, but today everything looked bleak and uncared for. Flowers gone from the front gardens, few displays in the shop windows. The weak afternoon light was fading fast but there were no lights showing in the houses. It was the hour for blackout. Whitchurch had not so far experienced the bombing that the big Midlands cities of Birmingham and Liverpool had, but the townsfolk were conscientious. For a brief moment, Tyler leaned his forehead against the cold windowpane. Then he turned around and stepped away.
“For heaven’s sake, Tyler,” he said to himself. “Moping won’t help.”
He was about to go into the front hall to see if he could get Sergeant Gough to stir up a cup of tea when the intercom buzzed. He answered it.
“Call for you, sir. From Mr. Grey at Special Branch.”
Tyler felt a pang of alarm. “Grey? What’s he want?” He hoped the man wasn’t calling with bad news about Clare. He’d had only one letter from her in three months. He assumed she was still in Switzerland.
“He didn’t say. Just that it was important.”
“It always is with that bloke. He probably reports his daily bowel movements to Winnie himself.”
Gough chuckled. “Shall I tell him you’re not in?”
“Good God, no, Guffie. What are you thinking? If the local boffin needs to talk to me urgently, I’d better answer. Could change the course of the war.”
He didn’t add “and give me something to do,” but he had the feeling that Sergeant Gough understood that.
“I’ll put him through. And I was just about to make a pot of tea. The wife sent over some fresh-baked tarts for us.”
“Now, that is important. You should have said so earlier.”
“I was saving the surprise, sir.”
Tyler picked up the telephone receiver.
“Evening, Tyler. Beastly weather, isn’t it.”
“Certainly is, sir.” He felt like saying, It’s November. This weather comes about regularly every year, but he waited for Grey to get to the point. He could hear him sucking on his pipe.
“I’m calling because I have a job for you. There’s been an explosion in one of the Brum munitions factories. Rather a nasty affair, truth be told. Some fatalities. Happened earlier today. I had a ring from the inspector at Steelhouse Lane. Name of Mason. He’s an old chum of yours, I understand. He said you were stationed in Birmingham at one time.”
“I was. Several years ago now.”
“He said his officers are stretched thin what with dealing with raids and so forth. He asked if we could spare you to handle the investigation.”
“Investigation, sir? I don’t consider myself an expert in explosives.”
“Don’t need to be. It’s no different from any other kind of police work. All a matter of common sense, really. You’ll no doubt find the blow-up was caused by carelessness, but we want to make sure there was no sabotage involved.”
Grey had a way of tailing off the ends of his sentences as if his energy was expiring, like the air from a pricked balloon. With that and the ubiquitous pipe in his mouth, his listener was constantly forced to ask him to repeat himself.
“Did you say sabotage, sir?”
There was a light tap at the door and Sergeant Gough entered, balancing a tray on one hand. Tyler waved to him to put it on the desk.
“… always a possibility,” murmured Grey. “The commies have quite a following in the industrial towns. Not to mention all the nationalists, who are as active as fleas on a dog in these places. If it’s not the Welsh, it’s the Irish or the Scots. Next thing, every piddling county in England will be demanding its own government.”
Tyler nodded to Gough, who poured out a cup of tea and mutely pointed at the jam tarts.
“You are up for this, aren’t you, Tyler?” said Grey. “Change of scene is as good as a rest, they say.” Tyler had been about to bite into one of the tarts, but he stopped. He wasn’t in the slightest bit tired; he wasn’t suffering from any bodily fatigue. But Grey said something else, which got lost.
“Beg pardon, sir.”
“According to my secretary, there’s a train leaving at nine tonight. As this is a special operation, you can put in a requisition for expenses. Keep them reasonable, there’s a good chap. We don’t have a lot of dosh to fling around. Mason said you can bunk in at the station. They’ve got spare rooms.” He paused and Tyler heard him strike a match. “All right, then? Ring me in a couple of days and let me know how you are getting on. The explosion was probably just what it seems to be – human error. But keep your eyes open. If any of those fanatics have been monkeying around we’ll string them up.”
Before Grey could disconnect, Tyler said, “Have you had any word from Mrs. Devereaux, sir? I mean, is she all right?”
Grey muttered something that Tyler managed to catch this time. “She is well. We are thinking of having her return to London while she can, but that is up to the ministry. Good luck, Tyler.”
The telephone clicked off, leaving Tyler to hang on to that morsel of news like a starving man.
The train was slow and it was going on for eleven o’clock when Tyler arrived in Birmingham. The carriages were unheated, and when he disembarked, he found himself moving stiffly. Like an old man, he thought to himself, not pleased.
The fog was pervading even the station and he felt it entering his lungs, dank and sour. Some change of scene! The Shropshire rain, miserable as it might be, at least felt clean. He turned up the collar of his macintosh. Passengers were dispersing quickly, but he paused for a moment to get his bearings.
A man muffled to the eyebrows was leaning against one of the pillars having a cigarette. “Taxi, sir?” His cab was barely visible.
“No thanks, I can walk faster.”
“Suit yourself.”
“You’re taking a gamble, aren’t you, mate? Driving in this weather?”
The man shrugged. “Got to make a living, don’t I.”
Another passenger, a man in an army greatcoat and peaked cap, came through the doors.
“Taxi, Captain?” This time the driver scored a hit.
“Good luck,” Tyler called after them. “Now, where were we?” he muttered to himself. He’d brought a filtered torch with him and he snapped on the light. Fat lot of good that did. The beam was simply bouncing back off the wall of fog. He’d have to rely on memory. Not too hard, considering how many times he’d walked his beat in this area. He’d been a police constable for – what was it? four years? After their second child was born, he talked Vera into moving to Birmingham with promises of a better salary, better social life, but she’d never settled down. Finally she gave him an ultimatum: either he returned to Whitchurch with her and the two kiddies or she was leaving him. Tyler had capitulated without much argument. He agreed it would be better for them to grow up in the country. However, he did miss the raw, tough edge of Birmingham life and the challenges of being a police officer there. Tyler sighed. Water under the bridge, that was.
He moved on, gaining more confidence in his route as he did so. The Industrial Revolution had spawned Birmingham, and nobody would ever pretend that this perpetually grimy city was elegant or charming, the way some of the older English towns were elegant and charming. However, people had made their lives here for generations, and the present destruction was distressing to see. Almost every few feet there was evidence of the damage that the recent bombing raids had inflicted. There were craters in the road with police barricades around them as warning. He had to walk around piles of rubble, and his light showed him glimpses of the collapsed walls of houses.
He had just turned the corner onto Colmore Row when a man loomed out of the darkness in front of him. They almost collided but the other man sidestepped nimbly into the road. At that moment a bicyclist shot out of the gloom and, unable to stop in time, crashed into the man, who fell
heavily to the ground. The bicycle skidded violently and the rider slipped from the pedals. However, he quickly straightened and, without pausing to see what damage he had caused, pedalled off.
“Hey, look where you’re going,” shouted Tyler. He aimed his torch but the bike was swallowed up by the fog. He glimpsed only a slight figure wearing a balaclava and dark clothes.
The man was getting to his feet slowly and Tyler went to help him. “You all right, sir?”
“Give me a minute and I’ll let you know.” His accent was American. He rubbed at his shoulder. “What happened? What hit me?”
“Some idiot of a lad who thinks he can ignore the laws of physics. He was riding much too fast for these conditions.”
The American grimaced as he bent down and picked up his hat, which had been knocked off when he fell. “I hope the little brat hits a brick and gets his comeuppance. What the hell is he doing riding around at this time of night, anyway?” He looked around. “You know, I don’t have a clue which direction to go in.”
“Where were you heading for?”
“My hotel. It’s on Corporation Street. But even in broad daylight I’d have trouble finding it. You Limeys insist on changing the name of the street every block or so. And this was way before you thought the Nazis might invade.”
Tyler grinned at him. The man seemed a little on the tipsy side but his good humour was infectious.
“I was visiting the auntie of a friend of mine,” continued the American. “She kept plying me with her homemade cider. That stuff tastes like apple juice and has the kick of a mule.” He moved closer to Tyler. “Are you a warden? You don’t have your armband and hat on. You’re not a spy, I hope.”
“No, I’m not.” Tyler pointed ahead of him. “That’s the way to your hotel. If you keep close to the curb you should be all right. Corporation Street isn’t far. Just go past the next two streets.”
The American held out his hand. “My name’s Kaplan. If you get hold of that tear-ass bugger, give him a clout for me.”
“I will indeed. One for me too.”
They shook hands and parted company. Kaplan was walking much more tentatively than he had before. Maybe Tyler should have offered to escort him to his hotel. Good for Anglo-American relations. Tyler wished he could have nabbed the little blighter, but he’d taken off in too much of a hurry.
The fog swirled in front of him as he trudged on.
Jack Walmsley, fourteen years old, a Boy Scout, and an official police messenger, was a lad in deep trouble and he knew it.
“Sod it.” He automatically whispered the bad word even though there was not a soul within earshot. He’d skinned his knee badly in the collision with the unknown pedestrian and he could feel a trickle of blood running down his bare leg into his sock. He wanted to go home but he daren’t. He had to come back to the gang with something to show for himself.
He started to count the streets, and at the third one he turned, dismounted, and wheeled his bike. Dorset Road had been bombed only a few days ago and he knew the houses were too badly damaged for anybody to have returned to live there. One of those that looked relatively intact had belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Cowan, an elderly couple he’d known since childhood. He’d heard they’d both died in the bombing raid. He shoved aside his feelings of uneasiness. They wouldn’t need their stuff now.
He pushed his bike under a remnant of fencing and slipped beneath the police ropes that were festooned around the area. He went to the front door, which was partly off its hinges, opened it cautiously, and stepped into the house.
“People are as thick as planks, Jack,” Donny had said to him. “Friggin’ stupid, most of them. They have no imagination. They usually leave their bloody money in the back of the wardrobe, in the pantry, or in the living room sideboard, bottom drawers at the back. Look for some sort of tin – biscuits, tea, stuff like that – Aunt Fannie’s po with a lid on. If there isn’t any money, scarf the tins of food. Better than bloody silver plate these days. But we can still handle the odd picture frame if it’s nice. Keep alert at all times, like a soldier. You don’t want to come across a friggin’ granny who’s bin sitting in the bleedin’ pantry waiting out the Jerry. Got it?”
Donny Jarvis had accompanied his question with a painful twist of Jack’s ear. He enjoyed doing things like that, and the burn had lingered for a long time after. He’d almost broken Jack’s little finger a couple of weeks ago, when he bent it down into the palm until the boy had shouted out in agony.
“Who’s the boss here, Jack?”
“You are, Donny,” gasped Jack.
“And you love me, don’t you?” More pressure applied. “Say yes, like the little pouf you really are.”
“Yes, Donny.”
“And if I asked you to suck my cock, you would, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Donny.”
The two other boys, Art Fernie and Bert Teale, who were watching, had tittered at this, and Donny thrust away Jack so hard he fell to the ground, cracking his elbow.
“You’re disgusting,” said Donny. “You’re worse than bleeding shit on my shoe.” And he’d wiped his foot on Jack’s trousers, going dangerously close to his privates. “Get up, arsehole. Don’t come back without that bleedin’ rucksack filled to the brim.”
Jack started to struggle to his feet, but Donny knocked him back again. “And don’t think of running to your old man or Mumsie. They won’t help you. Looters go to bloody jail for a long time. We have friends in jail, you little sod, and they would do whatever we asked them to. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jack whispered, and Donny let him get up.
They’d been gathered in the air-raid shelter in Bert Teale’s backyard. Bert’s mother was sozzled as usual and had stretched out under the kitchen table, which she said was as safe as anywhere. His dad was away in North Africa and Bert had declared one day that they didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but as for him, he hoped the bastard was dead. The boys didn’t usually exchange such personal feelings with each other, but both Art and Donny had nodded in agreement.
“After the war, I’m going to drive up in my Bentley … and I’m going to offer my old man a bloody job working for me.”
Donny sported a scar on his upper lip where his dad had knocked him against the stove during one of his mad-drunk fits. Even Jack – who tried to make himself invisible at the meetings and acted as if he didn’t see anything – even he was impressed by the implacable hatred in Donny’s eyes whenever he mentioned his father.
This cold, foggy November night, he’d gone to Donny’s house as instructed. “Fog is the perfect cover,” said Donny. “Nobody’ll be out and there won’t be a bloody raid. Soddin’ Jerry won’t risk it.” He grabbed Jack’s hand, ready to twist it. “You won’t get lost, will you, little ponce? You know what’ll happen if you try to weasel out of this with some poor excuse or other.”
Not being able to see more than a foot in front of you seemed more like a real reason than an excuse, but Jack didn’t dare say so.
The gang operated like a small feral pack and always went out during an air raid, banking on people to be in the shelters and the streets to be empty. Donny made a point of scoffing at the bombs. “If it’s got your bleedin’ name on it, you’ll cop it; otherwise you won’t.” The other boys made sure to hide their own fear. They’d had a couple of close calls but otherwise Donny’s credo seemed valid. They had hit six houses in succession during the last big raid, early in November. In one place they’d found thirty pounds hidden in the bread box. “Probably saving for Christmas,” said Donny with glee.
Usually they worked as a team, two to do the looting, one for a lookout. Tonight Jack was by himself. He was on probation, Donny said.
“You’re a friggin’ messenger. A Boy Scout. You’re a good boy. Everybody thinks the bleedin’ sun shines out of a scout’s arse. Nobody will question you tootling about.”
Jack stood for a moment in the hall. It was totally black and the acrid smell of cordite and dust
still lingered. He snapped on his torch, aiming the beam around the hall. Most of the roof was gone and the stairs had partially collapsed. In spite of what Donny had said about the wardrobes, he didn’t want to risk going up to the bedrooms.
There was a piece of plywood covering the entrance to the parlour, so he decided to check the kitchen first. Bits of plaster crunched underfoot as he walked down the narrow hallway. The woollen balaclava was itchy on his skin.
The kitchen was small, with yellow sprigged wallpaper that had once been bright and cheery but was now covered with red brick dust. He remembered being in here, sitting at that same table while Mrs. Cowan served him a glass of delicious eggnog. He hoped she couldn’t see him now. Don’t think about that. Don’t think. Be a soldier.
He opened the door to the pantry. The neat shelves were lined with tins. All kinds: tinned fruit, stewed tomatoes, peas and green beans, lots of baked beans.
He halted. Several tins had been opened and lay empty on the floor. He didn’t know what to make of it but he couldn’t back out now. He swung off his rucksack and shovelled in as many tins as he could, until it was bulging. He added a half bag of sugar and the tea caddy. What was that? He paused again, thinking he’d heard something, but it was just the wind blowing through the broken window. The tattered curtains were slapping and flapping like the flags of the dead.
Would this be enough for Donny? Jack couldn’t be sure. He’d better check the parlour. People often put their best china and silver in there, like his mum did. He shrugged the heavy rucksack onto his back and, swinging his torch from side to side, he walked cautiously out into the hall.
Beware This Boy Page 2
