by Roberta Kray
Elsa put down her mug and rose to her feet. ‘I’m going to get dressed.’ As she walked across the room, she added, ‘That Judith won’t give up in a hurry. She’s even talking about approaching Tombs direct, so if you don’t want her to do that, I’d make sure you meet her at the caff tomorrow.’
Saul nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘She’s a redhead, pretty. I told her to sit at the back.’
‘I’ll find her.’
‘I’m sure you will.’
Saul waited until the bedroom door had closed before standing up and taking out his wallet. He removed a couple of notes, laid them on the table beside the bottle of whisky and left without saying goodbye.
11
At breakfast Judith devoured her bacon and eggs and as much toast as she could manage, determined to get her seven bob’s worth. With food rationing still in place, she wondered where the B&B got its supplies from, but thought it best not to enquire too closely. Even in Westport there was a black market operating for basic goods, and in London you could probably get anything you wanted – so long as you had the money. She was as guilty as the next person when it came to buying illicit goods; the war, she suspected, had made cheats of them all.
Mrs Jolly, wife to the man who had booked her in, served breakfast in the dining room at the front of the house. There was only one big table and so everyone had to sit together. Judith had been relieved to discover that her three fellow guests, all middle-aged males, had almost finished their meal by the time she arrived, and so she was spared the awkwardness of having to make small talk while she ate.
The house was only a few yards from the road, and she could see and feel the red double-decker buses as they rumbled past. The traffic had woken her early in the morning, the noise lifting her out of a long, dreamless sleep. There had been the heavy tread of footsteps too, like a small army marching by. Voices had risen up to her window, early morning greetings and brief snippets of conversations.
As she gazed out through the net curtains, Judith wondered why the place was called Sycamore House. The only tree in sight was a spindly elm, and even that was ten feet away. She might have asked Mrs Jolly about it if the woman’s demeanour had matched her name, but the landlady’s face had a sour, dejected expression, as though life was in the process of wearing her down: she traipsed back and forth from the kitchen, clearing plates and cups and teapots, her sighs echoing around the dining room. Anyway, Judith wasn’t really interested in how the B&B had acquired its name. She was just looking for a distraction, something to think about other than her search for Dan.
As soon as she’d finished breakfast, she left the house, glancing up at the low cloud-filled sky and scooting across the road just as the first drops of rain began to fall. Yesterday’s storm had briefly cleared the atmosphere, but now the air was growing heavy and oppressive again. She put up her umbrella and joined the queue. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long for a bus. As it travelled towards the West End, she kept her face close to the window, her eyes scanning every face they passed.
The roads grew increasingly busy as the journey continued, with cars and buses and taxis all jostling for position. There was a downpour that obscured her view for a while, the rain battering hard against the glass. As more passengers joined the bus, it began to smell of perspiration and wet coats. Her thoughts turned away from her surroundings and towards the mysterious Saul. Would he be able to help? If Elsa was right about nobody in the East End talking to strangers, he could be her once chance to crack that wall of silence. She wished she didn’t have so long to wait. Seven o’clock seemed like a hundred lifetimes away.
Judith got off the bus at Oxford Circus and joined the throng. Crowds of people were rushing in and out of the Tube as if their lives depended on it. Everything seemed to move quickly in London, everyone in a mad dash to get somewhere. Following suit, she walked briskly, heeding Annie’s warnings about thieves and keeping one hand tightly on her bag. She knew exactly where she was going – last night’s study of the A–Z had been time well spent – and soon found New Bond Street leading off to the left.
It didn’t take long to grasp why this part of Mayfair was a target for crime. The stores were the most expensive she’d ever come across, the goods all top of the range: clothes, art, antiques and jewellery. She discovered the shop in the photograph about thirty yards down the road. The door had been repaired and there was no indication now of the damage that had been caused by the thieves. She shifted to the side of the pavement, took the Mirror picture out of her bag, examined it and then walked a little further along until she was in the exact spot where Dan had been standing. It made her tremble to think that less than a week ago he had been right here, his feet on this bit of pavement, his living, breathing body occupying this single piece of space.
The minutes passed and still she didn’t move. This spot was her connection to him and she didn’t want to relinquish it. Her gaze shifted from the jeweller’s and travelled up and down the street. Where had he been coming from when he’d stumbled upon the scene, and where had he been going? Maybe if she carried on standing here all day and night for a week or a month, he would eventually pass this way again.
Knowing that such a vigil was hardly practical, she set off again as another heavy shower set in. She put up her umbrella and for the next hour walked up and down the street, sidestepping the puddles and watching the people. She peered into shop windows, each one an Aladdin’s cave of gold and diamonds, silks and furs, pondering on who could actually afford to shop here. Well, the rich, she supposed, the lucky few who didn’t have to think twice about spending a fortune on a coat or a necklace.
Eventually, when it was obvious that Dan wasn’t going to miraculously appear, she made her way back to Oxford Street. She came across a newsagent, went in, bought a paper and asked where the nearest locksmith was.
‘There’s one in Coventry Street,’ the woman said. ‘Piccadilly. Do you know the way? It’s just past the Lyons’ Corner House.’
Judith nodded. ‘Thanks. I’ll find it.’ As she left the shop, she wondered if it was obvious she was a stranger to the city. She’d been trying her best to blend in, but perhaps her best wasn’t good enough. Everything about her – her accent, her clothes – marked her out as being different.
She retraced her steps along New Bond Street, into Old Bond Street and then on to Piccadilly. If she had thought Oxford Street was hectic, it was nothing compared to Piccadilly Circus. The place was jam-packed, a heaving mass of humanity, a mix of rich and poor, black and white, thin and fat and everything in between. She heard male American accents as she passed through the crowd: GIs, perhaps, who had never returned home. There was a constant rush of traffic, a roar of engines and a beeping of horns. The buildings were covered in bright advertisements for Bovril, chewing gum and Guinness.
As she stopped to get her bearings, she had a sudden feeling of panic. How easy it would be to just disappear in a city this size, to slip between the cracks in the pavement and never be seen again. No one, not a soul, knew exactly where she was at this moment. She quickly glanced left and right, up and down, as though an unforeseen danger might be hurtling towards her. Before she could become completely overwhelmed, she hurried on. Pull yourself together, Judith. She was a grown-up, almost thirty, and more than capable of taking care of herself.
Finding the Lyons’ Corner House wasn’t difficult. It was a large, imposing building, the restaurant spread over a number of floors. For some reason, the sight of it made her feel better, perhaps because there was a Lyons’ in Liverpool too. It seemed a safe and familiar place, somewhere she could seek sanctuary if the need arose. Maybe later she would get a cup of tea there and something to eat.
The locksmith was a few yards into Coventry Street. She didn’t hold out much hope as she marched into the shop, the photograph of Dan already clasped in her hand. There were no customers there, only a man behind the counter who was old and wizened, with a pair of glasses perche
d on the end of his nose.
‘Hello,’ Judith said, smiling brightly. ‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for my cousin. He’s a locksmith, you see, and … well, we lost touch during the war.’ She passed the picture over without mentioning a name. ‘I don’t suppose you recognise him? I was hoping he might be working round here.’
‘Now, let me see.’ The old man moved his glasses up his nose and took a close look. Then he moved the photo away from him and studied it from a distance. ‘Not round here, love,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I know all the local lads.’
Judith, who hadn’t been expecting anything else, nodded and held out her hand for the photograph. ‘Thanks anyway. Sorry to bother you.’
But the man wasn’t finished yet. Frowning slightly, he continued to stare at the picture. ‘I’ll tell you what, though, he does remind me of someone. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, mind. He looks a bit like Ron Doyle’s boy. Now what was he called? It’s just on the tip of my tongue.’ His frown grew deeper and then suddenly cleared. ‘I’ve got it! Ivor, Ivor Doyle! Is this him?’
Judith had a split second to make a decision. In that moment, with nothing to lose, she decided to run with it. ‘Yes, Ivor, that’s right. The family used to live in Kellston.’
‘Kellston, was it? Could have been. I was thinking Shoreditch, but it was a long time ago.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘The memory’s not what it used to be. You get to my age, you’re lucky if you can remember where you live yourself.’
She smiled, trying to keep her voice light. ‘I can’t find a trace. I’ve asked around, but I can’t find anyone who knew them.’
‘Well, Ron and his missus are long gone, ain’t they? The shop closed down in … well, it must be getting on for twenty years.’ He gave the photograph back to her. ‘Ivor’s cousin, eh? Fancy that.’
‘On my mother’s side,’ she lied. ‘I’m in London for a few days, so I thought I’d try and track him down. It’s a shame to lose touch, isn’t it?’ Even while she was speaking, Judith was furiously trying to think of what else she could ask that might lead to definitive proof that Dan and Ivor were one and the same person. ‘So, when was the last time you saw Ivor?’
‘Ah, hard to say. Probably not since Ron’s funeral.’
As she could hardly ask when Ron had died – as ‘family’, this was a fact she should already be aware of – she could only take a guess that it was around the same time the shop had closed. ‘Poor Ivor,’ she said. ‘It was hard for him. He wasn’t very old then, was he?’
‘That’s right. He was just a lad.’
She wondered what constituted a ‘lad’ in the man’s eyes – it could be any age from five to thirty-five. She tried a different tack. ‘Ivor used to have a friend called Dan Jonson. I’m sure he was a locksmith too. I don’t suppose that name rings any bells with you?’
He shook his head. ‘No, can’t say it does. I used to know a Dan Berryman – or was it Barryman? Covent Garden, that was his patch back in the day. But we’re talking the early thirties and he was getting on then, so that’s not much use to you. Sorry, love.’
‘You can’t think of anyone else who might be able to help?’
‘I can’t, love, not off the top of my head. But be sure to say hello if you find him. Tell him Harry Cole was asking after him.’
‘Yes, I will.’ Judith was still trying to think of any other avenue she could pursue when a couple of workmen walked in. She picked up the photograph and put it in her bag. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘You take care now.’
Back on the street, Judith didn’t know what to think. Could she trust Harry’s memory? He was getting on, and a likeness wasn’t a positive identification. She didn’t want to believe that Dan was actually Ivor Doyle – it would mean he was someone else, someone she had never really known – but she couldn’t dismiss the possibility. And if Harry was right, she was a few steps closer to finding her husband. That had to be a good thing, didn’t it? Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure. For the first time since her search had begun, she was starting to have doubts. What if the man she had married turned out to be a total stranger to her – a liar, a deceiver, a cheat? She paled, her stomach twisting. The thought of such a betrayal was enough to take her breath away.
12
By seven o’clock, Judith was a bundle of nerves. She’d arrived ten minutes early for her appointment with Saul and, as instructed, had chosen a table at the rear of the café. Her eyes rose again and again to the clock on the wall, to the second hand sweeping slowly round the face. Although she had made a number of telephone calls to various locksmiths during the afternoon, this time asking if Ivor Doyle worked there, she had been met with the same answer over and over again. No one had heard of him. Or so they said. She didn’t know who or what to believe any more.
Connolly’s was quiet, but the noise in her head more than made up for it. While she sipped her tea, she was inwardly debating the chances of Ivor and Dan being one and the same. Ivor Doyle. She rolled the name, like a heavy stone, from one part of her mind to another. No, she couldn’t trust old Harry, not after so many years had passed. But what if he was right? She was sure that Jimmy Taylor, the Kellston locksmith, had recognised Dan’s photo. It was only the name that had been wrong.
She racked her brains, trying to remember the conversations she’d had with Dan. If only she’d asked him what his parents’ Christian names had been. But it wasn’t the sort of question that had ever occurred to her. What she did know was that his mother had passed when he was a child, his father when he was seventeen. Except … was any of that true? If Dan wasn’t his real name, then maybe nothing else was either.
The minutes went by, and at twenty past seven, she was convinced the meeting wasn’t going to happen. It was at that very moment that the door to the café opened and a man walked in. He was in his early forties, slim, brown-haired, ordinary-looking. She stared. Was it him? He matched the description, vague as it was, that Elsa had given her. She watched him brush the summer rain from the shoulders of his overcoat before he casually scanned the room. Their eyes met and he strolled over to her table.
‘You must be Judith,’ he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘Sorry I’m late. Something came up.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Let me get you another drink. Tea, is it?’ Before she could reply, he’d beckoned over the waitress. ‘A couple of teas, please, love.’ He turned his attention back to Judith. ‘So, you’re looking for your husband. Elsa’s explained the situation. Do you have the photograph with you?’
Judith hesitated. Although there was nothing overtly disturbing about Saul, she had a sudden feeling of unease. In truth, she didn’t know this man from Adam, and seeing as most people had gone out of their way not to talk to her, she questioned his motives. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you exactly?’
‘What did Elsa tell you?’
‘Only your name, and that you know a lot of people.’
‘That just about sums it up.’
Judith frowned. ‘But it doesn’t explain why you’re here, why you’re offering to help.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think it does.’
Saul leaned forward, put his elbows on the table and lowered his voice. ‘If you want the truth, I’m a police officer.’
Judith shrank back, startled. ‘What? No, I don’t understand. I never asked for … I don’t want the police involved. This is nothing to do with—’
‘It’s all right,’ he said softly. ‘This isn’t anything official. It’s off the record, a favour if you like. Elsa asked me to help. She felt sorry for you.’
‘I don’t want to get him into trouble. That’s not why I came to London. I just … I just want to find him, to talk to him.’
‘I get that. You don’t have to worry. There’s only one condition attached to my help, and that’s that you don’t tell anyone, anyone at all, about this meeting or ab
out Elsa. She’s put herself on the line for you. If anyone found out … well, the people round here don’t like cops much. There could be repercussions for her, unpleasant ones.’
Judith stared at him. She didn’t want to be involved with the police, either on or off the record, but what choice did she have? If she was going to uncover the truth about Dan, she had to grab any leads that came her way. ‘I won’t tell anyone, I promise. You have my word.’
The waitress came with the teas and they both fell silent.
After she’d gone, Saul said, ‘Would you like to show me the photograph?’
Judith drew it out of her bag and laid it on the table in front of him. ‘This is Dan, although I don’t think he’s calling himself that now.’ She watched his face for any sign of recognition, but there was none. ‘Do you know him?’
Saul gave a light shrug of his shoulders. ‘I’m not sure.’
This wasn’t the answer she’d been hoping for. ‘What do you mean?’ she responded sharply. ‘Either you do or you don’t.’
He looked up from the photograph, his eyebrows arching. ‘Do you have any idea how many men of his age live in London? He looks familiar, but I can’t say a hundred per cent. I’ll have to check it out, have a search through the records back at the office.’
‘Why would you have a record of him there?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘He isn’t a criminal.’
Saul’s expression bordered on the smug. ‘But he does hang out with that great pillar of the community, Alfred Tombs?’
Judith wasn’t liking Saul much. ‘I’ve no idea if he “hangs out” with him or not. Just because they’re standing together doesn’t mean they know each other.’
‘But you’re worried they might.’
Judith didn’t answer.
‘Do you have the newspaper picture with you?’
She dug into her bag again and pulled it out. ‘Here,’ she said.
