Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

  “It sounds possible. I’m going to put out feelers. Possibly a…shall we say prewar business rival…wasn’t thrilled to see Ronny back, or maybe Ronny wasn’t thrilled to find out someone had moved in on his business while he was away.”

  “Moved in on his business? Not his wife?”

  “I won’t neglect that angle either, sir. And what about our mysterious young lady? Any identification yet? Anything helpful in the missing persons reports?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  “They’re taking their bloody time getting the information to us. They need to get moving. Half the people I talk to round here are scared out of their wits. It’s bad enough there’s a madman in Berlin ready to rain bombs on us, now they’re convinced there’s a madman lurking in the streets of Benwell. They’re afraid to go out after dark. Afraid for themselves, afraid for their families.”

  Baines groped around the untidy tabletop, spilling forms onto the floor until he found his eyeglasses and put them on. He blinked as he looked at Wallace, as if trying to clear his vision. “Well, there’s a war on, you know. It makes everyone anxious to begin with.”

  Yes, Wallace reflected as he left Baines’ office. There’s a war on. And that’s become an excuse for anything and everything.

  ***

  The streets of Benwell felt colder than ever as Grace went door-to-door asking if anyone had seen Hans lingering in the area on the night of Ronny’s murder. Not surprisingly, no one had, but they invariably wanted to know if he was suspected of being the murderer who had already claimed two victims and, if not,why wasn’t she helping find the culprit?

  Grace had to admit to herself she was relieved as one person after another denied seeing Hans. It was not a very professional attitude. It was exactly what Sergeant Baines would have expected of her, she thought grimly.

  Baines had shown a total lack of interest in Grace’s conversation with Cyril Rutherford. He was focused instead on Hans, now judged to have fled. Running away was a sign of guilt, Baines insisted. Or fear, Grace countered. If, indeed, there was not a perfectly simple and innocent explanation for Hans not returning to his flat.

  When Baines told her to interview the local residents it felt more like a dismissal than an assignment, a way to get her out of his office and away from his police station. After all, the higher-ups might force a woman constable on him, but they couldn’t stop him merely going through the motions of working with her.

  Grace was certain Rutherford was withholding information relating to the murders. She couldn’t say why she felt that way, or why the temple made her feel uneasy. The only place in Noddweir that felt anything like the ruins was the ancient stone circle on the hill overlooking the village. As a child she once confessed the Guardian Stones, as they were called, frightened her. “You have too much imagination, Grace,” her mother admonished her. From then on, for a long time, she believed the sensation the stones gave her was only her imagination.

  Now she experienced the same feeling from the scanty remains where the bodies had been found. She shivered. It was as if she had been touched by an icy draught originating deep in the darkness beneath her rational mind, from a door cracked open in a subbasement of her soul. And beyond the door lay what?

  Did others feel that too? Or was it something only perceived by a woman with the blood of generations of wise women flowing through her veins?

  Grace rapped at the McPhersons’ door. A dumpy woman in down-at-heel slippers and a dirty pinny peered out. She was, as her first words revealed, not a happy woman.

  “For heaven’s sake come in quick and stop letting the heat out!” She stepped back to allow Grace to enter, banging the door shut behind her. “Stu!” she shouted as they went down the hall. “What you been up to now, you little bugger?”

  The boy sat at an oil-cloth-covered kitchen table reading the local paper. His mother disappeared into the scullery and clattered pans about. Another demonstration of bad temper, Grace thought, noticing there were no signs of Christmas decorations, however poorly made, in this home. A photo propped up on the mantelpiece showed two men in uniform which, going by the looks Stu shared with the younger, she deduced to be the boy’s father and brother.

  “Going to ask you a few questions, Stu—”

  Mrs. McPherson looked in. “Take a chair, miss. Can’t offer you any tea, we’re down to our last couple of ounces. Stu, stand up when you’re talking to your elders. Do you want the constable to think you was dragged up in the gutter? Kids!”

  Stu stood, slouching, his expression sullen.

  “We are hoping you can help us with our inquiries—” Grace began.

  “We are hoping you can help us.” The boy mimicked her soft Shropshire accent in a high voice.

  Grace flushed. “You’re not doing yourself any good, young man. Just answer the questions. Now, are you out in the blackout a great deal?”

  “Nowt wrong wi’ that. I go and visit me marrers most nights. We play cards. Won five bob the other night. And when there’s air raids on, I do me bit, taking messages about. Not like them what do nowt but complain. Me brother—” he pointed to the photo “—he done his bit and what did it get him?”

  Stu’s mother emerged from the scullery. “He was a good lad, Constable, was our Robbie. Still got the telegram.”

  Grace was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. McPherson, but you must understand I have to ask these questions. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She pressed on, aware of his mother sobbing quietly behind her. “So you are out most nights. Did you see anything suspicious the night Ronny Arkwright was killed?”

  The boy sneered at her. “Yes, I did. Mam, will you stop that carrying on? It’s getting on me nerves!”

  His mother stepped round Grace and dealt the boy a sharp slap. “Don’t talk to me like that!”

  Stu rubbed his reddening cheek and looked at Grace. “I seen that square-head hanging about that night, him what’s pretending to be Dutch.” He stabbed a stubby forefinger at her. “Why aren’t you coppers going after him? It’s obvious to me. He knocked off Ronny so he could move in with Mavis!”

  Grace realized she was letting the interview get out of hand. Before she could correct its course, the boy continued, his voice growing shriller. “If you bluebottles done yer job proper, he would swing for it! I’d be happy to string him up meself if I could catch him, make him pay for me brother as well!”

  He was shouting now. His mother shouted louder. “Be quiet, Stu, and go to your room!”

  As the boy shuffled away down the hall, Mrs. McPherson turned toward Grace. Confirming she had seen nothing on the night in question either, she continued, “There’s been a lot of talk about the Dutchman. I don’t know what to think. Some say this, some say that. If you ask me, you should be looking into Ronny’s past. I always thought he’d wind up in jail. After he joined up, there was a lot fewer burglaries round here, for a start. He’d steal money off a blind man if he got a chance, and he done much worse than that before the war. Then there was that big fight he had with Charlie Gibson. Charlie got the worst of it that time.”

  “That time? You mean Charlie might have caught him in the blackout and gone a bit too far?”

  “Charlie has a very bad temper and he had a long history with Ronny, miss. I’m saying nowt else. Just telling you, talk to Charlie.”

  ***

  Wallace arranged to arrive at the Whistling Chicken shortly after it opened early in the afternoon. The pub called itself the Dying Swan, but its sign’s badly rendered bird, intended to represent a swan performing its fabled death song, reminded locals of a more prosaic fowl. The building occupied a corner at the bottom of a precipitous street leading down to Scotswood Road. Factory buildings ran in an unbroken stained brick wall along the opposite side of the road. The air was filled with a smoky haze from chimneys and the clanging of shunting trains.
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br />   Entering the pub he spotted his man immediately. He was sitting at a table in the back of the room, flat cap pulled down. His coat was open to show off his black waistcoat with its gold watch chain, just as he had worn it for years.

  Wallace sat down across from him. The man showed no more surprise than a stump. “Sefton. Keeping office hours again? I heard you retired.”

  “I could say the same for you, Wallace. Always thought old coppers was glad to put their sore flat feet up.”

  “War called me back, Sefton. What’s your excuse?”

  “Same as you. War. Just doing me bit.”

  “You weren’t called up to do your bit by sitting in a pub, Sefton. Don’t try to tell me the authorities are expecting the invasion to start at the Whistling Chicken.”

  Sefton’s gaze darted across Wallace’s uniform. “You was an inspector in the old days.”

  “Before I retired, yes.” Wallace got up and bought a couple of pints. He knew Sefton habitually drank Newcastle Brown to show his civic mindedness.

  Sefton peered out from under the bill of his cap. “It’s not like I’m carrying a gas pipe anymore. I’m too old for violence. It’s strictly business now. I saw opportunities I couldn’t pass up as a patriotic Geordie.”

  “The black market, you mean.”

  “Keeping up me countrymen’s spirits. What could be more patriotic? A few extra ounces of tea, chocolates, these things makes all the difference when it comes to morale. Hunting for that little extra takes people’s minds off bombs and finding so much as a cup of sugar—well, there’s a major victory to celebrate even if Hitler’s still occupying Europe. Between you and me, last week I found batteries for a lassie’s torch. Shops was all out. Said she’d tried ten different places. Now she’s walking the streets safely at night. Who knows what I saved her from? And you try to tell me I’m not a patriot!”

  “Is that what Ronny Arkwright wanted to talk to you about? The black market?”

  “Ronny Arkwright. Isn’t he on the convoys?”

  Wallace ignored the question. “You told Constable Baxter he was back a few days ago.”

  “Yes, now you remind me. A bonny lass. I did just that.” He tapped a finger on his cap. “Getting forgetful. Old age, you know. Seemed to me the constabulary would want to be informed about a troublemaker like Ronny being back.”

  A trio of men arrived. Their greasy overalls identified them as factory workers. They stood at the bar and talked loudly. “Bloody Germans are nothing but rats,” said one. “They need to be exterminated, the whole lot them,” added another as the publican chuckled.

  Sefton leaned over confidentially toward Wallace. “Look, Wallace, I’ve always been straight with you, haven’t I? I know nowt about Ronny’s doings. He just wanted to find out what his old marrers was up to.”

  He screwed up his face into a bad imitation of sorrow and continued. “Do you think I like spending my golden years having to scrounge about for a living? You know how it was in the old days. I had to leave school early to help support my mam and dad. If I’d had the chance for a proper education I’d be a respected businessman now. A pillar of our great city.” He raised his glass in an ironic salute and drained the last of his ale.

  “That’s all very well, Sefton, but as fate would have it, not so long ago you had a conversation with a former petty criminal who promptly turned up dead.”

  “Aye, strange, that,” the other remarked callously. “Mind, there’s a new bunch of lads growing up fast who’ll be carrying on Ronny’s proud tradition of petty theft and fighting and setting fire to anything that’ll burn, and likely worse.”

  Wallace fetched two more pints.

  “Got anyone in mind?” He paused. “But you’re right. We’re only now getting a look at the first form of those rising lads. Stu McPherson, for example. He’s already been in trouble and still in school.”

  “A bad one. Impatient. Wants to solve everything with a knife.”

  “It’s what the world’s coming to.”

  “Bloody shame, ain’t it?”

  “Depressing. Maybe I could do with some of those morale-raising chocolates you mentioned.”

  “All out.” Sefton reached inside his coat, brought out a ration book, and slid it across the table. “Will this do?”

  Wallace scooped it up. “Things are tight, Sefton. You say business is good?”

  Sefton tugged on the brim of his cap as if he was trying to pull it down and hide under it. “Forget it! Last time we done a deal you double-crossed me.”

  “I had no choice. I was set up. You know that.”

  Sefton considered the statement for a while. “Aye. How did we end up knee-deep in this line of work?”

  “We?”

  “If it weren’t for blokes like me, coppers wouldn’t be able to make a living. What else could you do?”

  “Take up pest control.” Wallace stood. “We’ll talk again. In the meantime, ask around. Find out what you can about Ronny’s doings since he got back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  On the way to visit the Gibsons, Grace considered Stu’s statement he had seen Hans hanging about, as he put it, on the night of Ronny’s murder. Since Hans was Mavis’ regular visitor, his presence was nothing out of the ordinary, even if a boy like Stu, with a well-known axe to grind over his brother’s death, could be believed.

  She would have to think it over later. Now she must talk to the Gibsons.

  Once again she plied a door knocker in hopes of locating useful information. She supposed it was an acquired skill. In Noddweir, where people left their houses unlocked, she would simply push the door open a crack and call out.

  This time she stood on the well-scrubbed step at the far end of Carter Street from Mavis’ home. By contrast to those cramped living quarters, the Gibsons lived in an upstairs maisonette, meaning they had the luxury of a couple of extra rooms and an attic.

  What had Mrs. McPherson meant when she advised Grace to interview Charlie Gibson? “He had a long history with Ronny,” she had said but refused to say anything further, merely pointing out where the Gibsons lived as Grace departed.

  The door opened and a grey-haired man Grace recognised from the air raid shelter peered out.

  “Mr. Gibson?”

  “That’s right. Police, is it? More scandal for the old wives to gossip about. Stop freezing your backside on the doorstep and come upstairs.”

  She realized he was younger than she had taken him to be the first time she saw him. Mid-forties at most but prematurely grey. Grace followed him up a staircase fitted with a narrow strip of coarse carpeting and into the kitchen where a woman introduced as his wife sat at a table placing gifts into bags sewn from scraps of material. Two honeycomb tissue paper ornaments—one a scarlet bell and the other its twin but bright green—hung from the ceiling light, adding a meagre festive air to the noticeably chilly room.

  “Well, Joan, seems we’ve been favoured with a police visit,” Charlie informed her. He pointed Grace to an armchair at one side of the fireplace. He didn’t sit but picked up a poker and stirred the dying flames in the grate. He appeared agitated, prodding the coals so awkwardly he spilled ashes out onto the hearth.

  His wife didn’t bother to look up from her work. She was the woman Grace had seen with Charlie in the church crypt. “Me old man been fighting again, has he, miss? I keep telling the stupid bugger to control his temper. It’s caused us enough trouble as it is, and it don’t give a good example to the bairn.”

  “It’s not about your husband, Mrs. Gibson.”

  “Bloody right, it ain’t!” he said loudly, shaking the poker.

  “Charlie,” his wife scolded, “put that down and don’t start yelling or you’ll wake Veronica up and she’s just gone off.”

  Charlie reddened. He shook the poker again but it fell out of his hand and clattered at
his feet.

  “Children are always too excited to get to sleep on Christmas Eve,” Grace smiled, hoping to alleviate the tension.

  Joan finally looked up. “Got bairns of your own, then?”

  Grace admitted she did not, adding she was not married. To her surprise, Joan’s mouth tightened and she turned back to the parcels she was creating. “These are little bits and pieces for Veronica,” she explained. “We have a dolly’s pram Charlie bought off one of his friends, nicely repainted and hidden in our wardrobe. And sitting in it right now is a dolly I got. Clothes and everything. Saved up for ages to get it too. The bairn will be thrilled.”

  “Never mind about that,” Charlie said. “The police don’t call unless they think you’re sitting in something and I don’t mean a pram. So what’s the story, Constable?”

  Grace opened up her notebook. “I’m here about Ronny Arkwright. We’re interviewing everyone in the street. What can you tell me about him, Mr. Gibson?”

  “By God, I could tell you a lot about that swine—”

  “Charlie!” his wife said in a warning tone.

  He ignored her and plunged on, red-faced with anger. “No, Joan, would you rather the constable heard gossip and half of it lies? Well, miss, Ronny and I have known each other a long time. In the old days we was marrers. Before the war we done business together.”

  Grace looked up from making notes. “What kind of business, sir?”

  “This and that. Bit of painting, collecting scrap to sell, repairing stuff, moving furniture, that sort of thing. Made good money too, but he was ever one for the tarts. Spent all his money on them. I kept telling him to save it while he had it but he took no notice. You canna do a thing with these young lads. Then he got engaged to Mavis down the street. God knows what she saw in him. She’s a canny lass.”

  “Who likes to go dancing when her husband is away,” sniffed Joan from the table.

  “Well, he’s away permanently and she can dance all she likes now. Where was I? Oh yes, telling the constable here about before the war. I done that stuff in me spare time, since I worked at the Elswick pit then. Ronny never seemed to be working that hard but he always had a well-stuffed wallet. Claimed he was lucky at cards. It’s true he always won when we played. He got pinched by the police more than once but like many a lass before her, Mavis thought she could reform him once they married. She’s had a sad time of it—”