Ruined Stones

by Eric Reed

What then? Rutherford remembered the two corpses found not far from where he stood. He started to shake.

  Stu took another step toward him. “We want to hear about yer cone of power, Mr. Rutherford. Maybe we can help.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Wallace had donned a well-worn three-piece suit of a vintage indicated by the generous turn-ups on the trousers, a sartorial touch that rumour had it would soon be banned under regulations intended to conserve material and labour for the war effort. He might be dressed too formally for a visit to the Duke’s Arms, but wearing his uniform would guarantee tight lips all around.

  The pair he wanted to talk to, the Anderson brothers, occupied their usual corner, backs to the wall, keeping an eye on the door and sipping drinks, silent and watchful, looking like elderly rats.

  Which is exactly what they were, Wallace thought. Hitler might replace the king as the country’s new landlord, but the rats in the cellar would continue with their thieving and fighting as if nothing had changed.

  He bought a pint and sat down beside them, amending his previous thought. They were large, brawny rats despite being on the wrong side of seventy. They both looked as if they’d spent their lives at hard physical labor. In reality the only labor they’d done was beating people up.

  “Going to get us bad reputations if our marrers come in and see us boozing with a copper,” Matthew complained. “People’ll think you was treating us in return for information, Wallace.”

  “Information is always gratefully received by poor coppers on the beat,” Wallace returned.

  “Poor, he says,” sneered Mike. “Nobody greasing your palm to turn a blind eye to little indiscretions like in the old days?”

  Wallace leveled a cold stare at him. “Little indiscretions like blackmail or bashing defenceless lasses on the head?”

  For a few moments the trio drank in what might have passed for companionable silence. Finally Wallace put down his glass and wiped his mouth. “Charlie Gibson been in here tonight?”

  The brothers exchanged glances. “Not while we’ve been here.”

  “Surprised, since it’s his favourite pub.”

  “Good God!” Matthew gasped in mock horror. “The copper on the beat really does know all about them living on the streets they patrol. But you won’t see him here at night. He’s an air raid warden, you know. He’ll be on duty as soon as it’s dark.”

  “Aye, maybe so. But an air raid warden is entitled to pop in for a quick drink when it’s quiet.”

  Mike looked surprised, pushed back his cap, and scratched his head. “Is this man joking or not?” he asked his younger sibling.

  Wallace persisted. “Ronny went on a pub crawl the night he was killed. Did he come in here that night?”

  “How do you know we were here that night?” Matthew asked. “Are we supposed to keep a record of every bugger’s comings and goings and send it to the station weekly?”

  “You’re here every night, regular as clockwork.” Wallace swallowed the last of his pint. “I’m surprised the landlord serves you, the number of times you’ve been arrested for fighting here. You think I don’t remember?”

  “That was in the old days, before you was retired,” Mike said. “Since then me brother and me, we’ve reformed.”

  Matthew made a fist. “And lucky for you we don’t think with these anymore.”

  “Heard you haven’t changed,” Wallace said.

  Matthew put a big hand on Wallace’s shoulder in what an observer might have mistaken for a friendly gesture. “If we ain’t changed our ways, why are you still sitting up instead of lying on the floor bleeding?”

  Mike gave his brother a warning look and the big hand left Wallace’s shoulder.

  “Have you two talked to Sefton lately?”

  Mike frowned. “We don’t work with Sefton no more.”

  “Sounds like you boys do nothing anymore but sit in the corner here and drink.”

  “That’s right,” Matthew growled. “We ain’t causing no one no trouble. We both got one foot in the grave.”

  “So an old git like me could put you straight in the hole with a good hard kick in the arse.”

  “I don’t go in for rough stuff these days but that don’t mean I forgot how, Wallace.”

  “You know better than to get my brother het up,” Mike warned. “And can you blame him? Here we are, minding our own business, trying to enjoy our retirement. We don’t need coppers breathing down our necks.”

  “So you understand the point I’m making, Mike. If you don’t want the police trailing your coffin around right to the cemetery gates—”

  “All right, Wallace. We got nothing to hide no more, my brother and me. Not talking to coppers gets to be a habit. When you asked us about Ronny at the cemetery we said we didn’t know nothing. But being as you’re going to buy the next round we’ll tell you what you want to save you the trouble of having to ask somebody else.”

  Wallace obliged. Mike took a few gulps, gathering his thoughts. Matthew glared threateningly.

  “I’m thinking Ronny knew we’d be here,” Mike began, “just like you did. He come in with a pair of blokes from the old days, treated us all to a drink. We was catching up on the news when in comes Charlie Gibson, mad with power, shouting light was getting out into the street. You’d have thought the war was going to be lost then and there if somebody didn’t straighten out the blackout curtains.

  “Then he spies Ronny and forgets all about winning the war. He got after Ronny about the kid. Things got a bit heated before Charlie shoved off, and then after a bit Ronny left.”

  “What do you mean by heated?” Wallace asked. “Did they fight?”

  “Only yelling and cursing. Ronny can out-curse Charlie in his sleep. They couldn’t very well fight. A man with only one good arm could hardly take on Ronny, and it wouldn’t look good for Ronny to beat up a cripple.”

  “And to think someone said there was no honour among thieves. Did Ronny’s friends go with him?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “Do you think Ronny went out after Charlie?”

  “Nay. It was a few minutes after Charlie left before Ronny went out.”

  Wallace finished his drink and stood up. “Thanks, boys. If you think of owt else, any information will be appreciated. Now you’re retired an extra quid here and there might help you make ends meet.”

  Chapter Thirty

  When Grace arrived at the station the next morning Robinson was going through reports, and Wallace was ensconced behind Sergeant Baines’ makeshift desk in the kitchen, sipping from a cup.

  “You’ve made tea?” Grace asked. “I could use something warm.”

  “This will warm you up faster than tea.” When Baines raised his cup Grace smelled whiskey.

  “The drinks are on Sergeant Baines this morning.” Wallace glanced toward the cupboard under the sink.

  “Should you be drinking that? What will the sergeant say?”

  “Probably ‘I hope you’ve saved some for me.’”

  Grace tended to the kettle. Then she stuck her head out the doorway. “Robinson? Tea?”

  The constable started before turning his head. “Um…yes, miss. Thanks. If you don’t mind.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Grace wondered.

  “He fancies you,” Wallace replied.

  “What?”

  Wallace stared contentedly into his cup. “No, seriously.”

  Just what she needed. The other constables had already decided to send the upstart woman to Coventry. If Robinson felt that way about her it would only make things worse.

  Wallace told Grace what he’d learned from the Anderson brothers about the encounter between Charlie Gibson and Ronny. Grace took tea to Robinson, being careful not to smile at him before sitting across from Wallace with her own cup.
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  “Our Ronny was a busy lad the night he died,” Wallace said. “Fought with his wife, threatened his wife’s fancy man—meaning the Dutchman—at the Dying Swan, and got into an argument with Charlie Gibson at the Duke’s Arms.”

  “Are Hans van der Berg and Charlie Gibson being viewed as the main suspects?”

  “Suspects certainly.”

  “Why Hans? Because of the gossip that he’s having an affair with Mavis?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what Ronny thought. In connection with him, consider Charlie Gibson. He may only have full use of one arm, but that’s enough if you have a grudge and a cosh. And then there’s Phyllis, who has good reason to hate Ronny.”

  Wallace got up and took a step toward the sink. Grace gave him a warning look and he sat down again. “Yes, I wouldn’t count Phyllis out, knowing what she was like growing up,” he continued. “But I mostly suspect it was someone with a criminal background, the sort of company Ronny ran with before the war. People like the Anderson brothers.”

  Grace described her visit to Rutherford and their conversation.

  Wallace gave her a bleak smile. “You won’t let go of that supernatural nonsense, will you?”

  “The circumstances suggest a strong link between the murders, don’t they?” Grace argued. “My feeling is we’ll find Ronny’s murderer more easily if the young woman is ever identified.”

  “When she’s identified—which she would have been by now if headquarters wasn’t so far behind with everything—I’m pretty certain we’ll find out she was a tart, killed by a client we’ll have no way of tracking down.”

  “And the fact she and Ronny were both laid out the same way in the same place?”

  “It’s only in your imagination, Grace. You aren’t living in the countryside any longer. I know people can have strange ideas when they’re surrounded by dark woods and nothing for miles but fields and cows and what have you, but there’s nothing supernatural about crime in Newcastle. We don’t have devils here, just human monsters.”

  Grace forced herself to bite her tongue. “Mr. Rutherford told me his former group is holding a séance tonight,” she said. “I was thinking—”

  “Do you seriously think Rutherford would or could kill two people? He’s a harmless old fool. Been living here for years.”

  “I believe he’s more than a simple eccentric. It’s not so much that he’s our murderer, it’s just I sense he’s connected to the murders, though I’m not sure how.”

  Wallace got up, took Baines’ whiskey bottle from its hiding place beneath the sink, and poured more into his cup. “I hate to see you wasting valuable time on wild goose chases, Grace. These murders have the whole area in a panic. Is it surprising? You can’t be watching the skies for bombs and your back for knives at the same time.”

  He sighed. “If you really think attending a séance will further the investigation, I suppose it’s worth a try. Go home early today and get some rest. You never know how long these things will go on.”

  ***

  Returning to her lodgings, Grace was startled to find Hans there.

  “I took the day off,” Mavis explained. “Feeling under the weather. So Hans came over to keep me company.”

  “I see. Too much dancing last night?” The two looked comfortable together. Grace felt intensely uncomfortable. Had she barged in on something?

  She went into the bedroom to change. Mavis’ bed was still unmade. Grace had a sick feeling in her stomach. Maybe Mavis and Hans were, in fact, having an affair. She felt jealous and was ashamed of being jealous, angry at herself for her feelings. Was she a schoolgirl?

  Her gaze dwelled on the rumpled bed. How could Mavis carry on as she did? Going out dancing the same week her husband was murdered, entertaining Hans as usual. And Hans…what was he thinking, continuing to visit a woman newly widowed? He had struck her as simple and straightforward. Had she misjudged the man so badly?

  She could hear Hans and Mavis speaking in low tones in the kitchen. It sounded like an intimate conversation, one not meant for other ears. Well, Grace was back and she refused to cloister herself in the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, she went out to form the third party in the crowd.

  ***

  After Grace left the office, Wallace reluctantly settled down to a long day of paperwork. He had no qualms about requisitioning his superior’s desk and whiskey for the task. Baines had been virtually useless for months and it had fallen to Wallace as the only experienced officer to keep the sub-station functioning. Wallace, who had retired and was looking forward to a future from which piles of paperwork were blessedly absent, now faced reports that hadn’t existed before the war. The police were expected to keep track of blackout violations, monitor enemy aliens, trace deserters, and endless other war-related matters, each accompanied by its own forms. Perhaps the bureaucrats wanted to generate enough paperwork to smother the Nazis.

  If the truth were told, Wallace had already grown bored with retirement. His only marriage had been to his job. He lived alone and his interests did not extend far beyond his work. He’d never grasped the attraction of books. Why read about other people’s experiences or imaginings? And how many dog races could you go to, especially if you needed to be frugal with your betting?

  The doorbell jingled and, to Wallace’s amazement, in came a familiar figure wearing a flat cap.

  “Bloody hell, Sefton, I never thought I’d see you walk into a police station voluntarily! Have a seat.”

  “You’re not as young as you used to be, Wallace. I thought I’d save you a trip to the Whistling Chicken. It’s perishing out there.”

  “You mean you don’t want to risk being seen there with me. Fair enough.” He noticed Sefton’s gaze wandered to the cup on the paper-strewn desk. “A drink to warm you up?”

  “Never refuse a drink. Me old man’s best advice.”

  Wallace stood, shut the kitchen door, got another cup, and poured out a generous measure of whiskey. “This one’s on Sergeant Baines.”

  Sefton emptied his cup. “A man’s never too old to enjoy a drink…or two.”

  Wallace took the hint. “What have you found out?”

  “Ronny was a busy bugger after he arrived back on leave.”

  “Says who?”

  Sefton looked nervous. He’d opened his overcoat and was adjusting his gold watch chain. “Let’s just say Ronny and me have mutual acquaintances who like to gossip over drinks if someone else is buying.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “Ronny planned to get into the black market.”

  “Did he expect the war to end in six months?”

  “He planned to get discharged on medical grounds. Got hold of a doctor he squared so he could find out how to fake being what they call a psychiatric casualty.”

  Wallace loosed a string of ripe oaths, then grudgingly admitted Ronny was a clever bugger, if not clever enough to avoid getting himself killed. “Strange it would come practically on his own doorstep and not on the high seas,” he mused.

  “Aye, so it is. Bad luck. He’d already lined up a number of what he called overseas contacts.”

  “But how the hell could he, Sefton? It’s not like he could send a postcard to Paris asking for a crate of French perfume to be shipped over.”

  “Me friends reckoned he meant he’d got hold of some of these foreign refugees swarming the city right now and there was bound to be a fiddle in it somewhere, but none of us could work out what it was.”

  “Who else was involved?”

  “His usual mob, apparently.”

  “People like the Anderson brothers?”

  Sefton raised his eyebrows. “They admitted he met with them?”

  “I see you’ve heard I was talking to them.”

  “Word gets around. Old Wallace’s back.”

  “So Benwe
ll will soon see a drop in crime?”

  “Do you expect me to disagree, Wallace? Here’s another tidbit. Ronny let slip he was off to stay with his kid’s mother in Gateshead for a while and then he might get round to calling on his wife or he might not.”

  Had he in fact visited Phyllis? She had denied it but then she wouldn’t want to get involved in a murder investigation. “What else can you tell me? What about the shouting match Charlie Gibson had with Ronny at the Duke’s Arms?”

  Sefton looked peeved. “I’ve been putting myself at risk for nowt. I can’t surprise you.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “Seems Charlie was doing a bit of work for the Andersons. Needs must. Just enough to help make ends meet. Nothing big.”

  “Surprise me again.”

  “Ronny had Stu McPherson in tow. He was following Ronny around with stars in his eyes.”

  “And a knife in his pocket.”

  “Oh, aye. He thought Ronny was a Tyneside Robin Hood. Only with him it would be Robbing Ronny and the poor wouldn’t see a penny of his ill-gotten gains.”

  “Did Stu actually talk to the Andersons or just watch what was going on?”

  Sefton fiddled with his watch chain while he thought. “Can’t remember anyone saying anything about that. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stu’s talked to every…um…businessman in Benwell. Looking for career advice, like.”

  “Aye. If this bloody war doesn’t let me retire again quick, I’ll be arresting him sooner or later.”

  Sefton had little more to offer. Was he withholding information? But he’d always been a reliable informant as well as an occasional business partner.

  Sefton got up and buttoned his overcoat.

  “How about a bit of chocolate?” Wallace asked.

  “What makes you think I carry around—?” Seeing the way Wallace was glaring at him, Sefton reached into a pocket and brought out a small parcel.

  “Keep your ears open, Sefton. See if you can find out more about Ronny’s plans and his movements.”

  Wallace sat back, unwrapped the parcel, broke off a bit of chocolate, and popped it into his mouth.