by Roberta Kray
‘Or maybe he was the one who eliminated the problem.’
‘I really couldn’t say, Mr Hannah.’
More like he wouldn’t say, Saul thought. Doyle had probably got fake identity papers before he left London – there were plenty of forgers who’d be willing, for a price, to provide the necessary documentation – and started afresh up north. While he was there, he’d met Judith, and later married her.
‘Does the name Dan Jonson mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Does Ivor Doyle have a wife?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I’m just curious.’ Saul had discovered nothing in the files about Doyle’s marital status, but then there wasn’t much full stop. He was a man who appeared to have stayed under the radar for most of his criminal career. ‘Has he?’
‘How would I know? Like I said, he keeps himself to himself.’ He turned the now empty glass around in his fingers and slid his tongue over his lips. ‘Although now I come to think of it, there could be a girl. A blonde. What’s her name?’ He glanced down at the glass and then over at Saul. ‘It might come back to me.’
Saul nodded at the barman and got another round. ‘Tell me about the blonde.’
15
Maud Bishop stood at the top of the stairs, straining her ears as she tried to listen in to the conversation taking place in the kitchen. It was a small house and the kitchen door was ajar, but the two men were speaking quietly. The night air was cool and she shivered in the darkness. If Mick caught her earwigging, he’d add a few more bruises to the ones she’d already got. She gently rubbed her arm where the flesh was sore and discoloured from her elbow to her shoulder. It was worth the risk, though. It was worth anything to see the bastard banged up.
She was gathering information in bits and pieces, a word here, a word there, and trying to put them together like a jigsaw: September, shooters, someone called Temple. From what they were saying, it sounded like the latter was the inside man. There was always an inside man on big jobs like this, usually a security guard happy to take a beating for a share of the profits.
Although Maud had been raised in the kind of family that viewed grassing as the eighth deadly sin, she had no qualms about what she was doing. It wasn’t just for her, but for her kids too. At seven years old, Stanley was already starting to copy his dad, lashing out and name-calling, getting into fights. Before long he’d be out of control and then there would be no going back. He’d end up in Borstal, then jail, and that would be the story of his life. The only way to stop it was to get away from here, to get away from Mick, and the only way to do both those things was to make sure she had money when he went down for a long stretch.
Harsh laughter floated up the stairs. ‘I reckon the fuckin’ bastard’s still trying to work it out.’ Pat Hull was talking about Tombs and the New Bond Street job. Someone had tipped Pat off about a plan to do a smash-and-grab at the Mayfair jeweller’s, and so he and Mick had got in there first. ‘He’ll be steaming, all that tom he’s missed out on.’
Maud knew Mick must have made a bundle from the robbery, but none of it had come her way. It didn’t matter that the rent was overdue or the kids needed new shoes. He would spend it all on tarts and booze and gambling, lose a fortune on the tables and then take it out on her. She rubbed her arm again, feeding her resentment. She could have told Saul about Mick’s involvement, but without any evidence – the goods would have been moved on by now – it wouldn’t have achieved much. Anyway, she was keeping her powder dry, saving it for the big one. When Mick went down, it had to be for a very long time. If this job was as major as it sounded, there would be good rewards at the end of it. The law would arrest Mick in the act, and the insurers – under instructions from Saul – would give her the money she deserved.
With four kids to feed and clothe, life was a constant struggle for Maud. Not that he cared. On more than one occasion she’d had to steal from his wallet, grabbing a note or two while he was out cold from the booze. Sometimes she got away with it and sometimes she didn’t. She had spent the entire war hoping that a bomb would drop on his head, but Hitler hadn’t been obliging. If it wasn’t for the kids, she’d have put a knife through Mick’s heart years ago. But who would take care of the little ones when the courts placed a noose round her neck?
The only thing that kept her going was the knowledge that it would soon be over. She could put up with whatever he did to her because the end was in sight. Once he was safely behind bars, and once she’d got the money, she’d pack up, take the kids and leave. She’d tell the neighbours they were going to stay with her sister in Hounslow, but her plan was to head for Scotland. There were factories there, places she could get work, and most importantly of all, it was as far away from him as she could get.
Pat Hull laughed again, and slapped his palm against the table. The noise made her flinch and she instinctively took a step back. There was a clink of glasses, the sound of a match being struck. She hated Pat almost as much as she hated Mick. He was just like his brother – vicious scum. He didn’t know who’d killed Lennie, but she did. She smiled into the darkness. It was a secret she’d take to her grave.
16
Judith was at a loss as to what to do next. She woke to blue skies and sunshine on Wednesday morning, got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast, then returned to her room. With a whole day to kill before her next meeting with Saul, she had no clear idea as to how she was going to fill the time. Should she carry on with the locksmiths, maybe try Hoxton or Whitechapel, or go back to the West End? She had little confidence that either of these choices would yield useful results, but doing something was better than doing nothing.
She perched on the edge of the bed while she weighed up the options. Perhaps she should try and track down Alfred Tombs instead. But Elsa’s warning echoed in her head. No, she would leave that as a last resort. If all else failed, she would start on it tomorrow. There would be a couple of days left, time enough, surely, to find someone as notorious as him.
She stood up, put on her jacket and went back downstairs. As she left the house, she remembered the feeling she’d had the night before, the sense that she was being followed. Her gaze nervously scanned the street, flicking left and right, but nothing struck her as odd and no one seemed to be paying her any attention. In the broad light of day, her suspicions felt frail and insubstantial, a product of her imagination and the shadows of dusk.
While she was waiting at the bus stop, she glanced along the road and noticed the Fox. The public houses were somewhere she hadn’t tried yet. If Dan was living round here, he must be drinking in one of them. The idea of going into a pub alone made her uncomfortable; it was something she would never do at home. If only she had some company, Charlotte or Annie, but she was utterly alone.
The first bus that came along was going to Tottenham Court Road. Having still not made a firm decision as to what she planned to do, she yielded to fate, climbed on board and took a seat near the front. As they travelled towards the West End, she tried to get her thoughts in order. The whole Ivor Doyle business continued to bug her. What if it was a complete red herring? What if this Doyle man just had a look of Dan about him? She could end up wasting days attempting to chase down some random bloke who had nothing at all to do with her. Except he was a locksmith, and parts of the old man’s story tallied with what she knew about Dan. A sick feeling swirled around in her guts. If they were the same person, it meant that Dan had deserted her.
She briefly closed her eyes, trying to blink away this unwelcome and painful conclusion. But she wasn’t tempted, not even for a moment, to abandon the search. She would see it through to the bitter end, no matter what the outcome.
By midday, she had covered a couple of miles, circling round to Piccadilly and criss-crossing the West End in an aimless kind of fashion. She wasn’t really sure what she was looking for. The chances of bumping into Dan were probably about three million to one, but the knowledge that he’d been in the
area a week ago spurred her on. Eventually she found herself back in New Bond Street, staring again at the jewellery store. She felt pulled to the spot as though it had a magnetic force she couldn’t resist.
She was sure of one thing at least: Dan couldn’t have had anything to do with the robbery. Although she had no idea when the Mirror photograph had been taken – fifteen minutes, an hour, two hours after the event? – you didn’t stand around gawping in the street if you’d just committed a crime. She sighed. It was hard to believe she could even be thinking this way. The Dan she’d known had been decent, law-abiding, a man with principles. But decent men came home to their wives after the war. So why had he been here, standing beside one of the most notorious villains in London? She had no answer to the question.
She stared intently at the jeweller’s, taking in all the details like a thief casing a joint. When she’d exhausted every square inch of the building, she began to walk up and down the street, retracing her steps from yesterday. She felt there had to be a lead somewhere, a clue as to Dan’s whereabouts. But why should there be? Just because he had passed this way once didn’t mean he would do it again. But it didn’t mean he wouldn’t either. She clung to this slender straw as her gaze raked the crowd, her eyes searching for that familiar face.
She was on her third lap, going up one side of the street and down the other, when the man approached. He was in his late thirties, broader-shouldered but only slightly taller than her, with pale brown hair cropped close to his skull.
‘Hey, Red,’ he said in a broad American accent. ‘You okay? You’re looking kind of lost.’
‘No,’ she said, startled by this unsolicited approach. ‘I’m not. Lost, that is. I’m just … just waiting for someone.’
‘Lucky someone,’ he drawled, grinning widely. ‘You want to get a coffee?’
She wondered what part of ‘waiting for someone’ he didn’t understand. ‘No thank you.’
‘Oh well, you don’t ask, you don’t get. There’s a swell little coffee bar just around the corner. You sure you’re okay? You look kind of blue, if you don’t mind me saying. Rainy skies and all that.’ He glanced up at what was in fact a clear blue sky, and shrugged. ‘I guess you’re not from round here.’
‘No.’ Judith was already edging away. She didn’t want to be rude, but nor did she want to continue this exchange. ‘Sorry, but I really have to go.’
‘I’m not from these parts either, in case you hadn’t guessed. This guy you’re waiting for, is he a Yank?’
Judith hadn’t told him it was a man, but she shook her head anyway. ‘No. Look, I’m sorry, but—’
‘Yeah, you’ve got to go, right? I get the message. But I’ll tell you something for nothing, hon. He’s not worth it. Any guy who keeps a broad like you waiting must need his head examining.’
Despite herself, Judith smiled. It was nice to be appreciated by someone, even if that someone was a chancer with a silver tongue. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘See you around, hon. You ever change your mind, you can usually find me at Carlo’s. It’s in Beak Street. Pete’s the name, Pete Stanhope.’
Judith nodded. ‘Goodbye, Pete.’ As she walked off, she wondered if she should have shown him the photograph of Dan. If he made a habit of hanging around the area, he might have noticed him. She dithered – on the one hand, she didn’t want to encourage the man, but on the other, he might have some useful information – and by the time she turned to look for him again, he’d gone. She peered through the crowds of people, but he’d already drifted away.
As she turned the corner on to Conduit Street, Judith stopped to examine her face in a shop window, wondering if she looked as ‘blue’ as he’d claimed. Well, she had plenty to be sad about. She inclined her head and frowned. She didn’t think she looked any different from usual, but that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Perhaps whatever was etched on her features – despair, sorrow, melancholy – had been there for so many years that she no longer noticed it. She made a feeble attempt at a smile, and her lips trembled.
Quickly she moved on, striding down to Regent Street. What next? Suddenly she felt afraid. She wanted to get away from the noisy, hectic West End. The crowds were pressing in on her. She hated the dirt and the clamour and the constant traffic. The air smelled of exhaust fumes. She didn’t understand why anyone would choose to live in London; it was big and grasping, like a monster wanting to suck the oxygen from your lungs and squeeze you dry.
As she reached the next corner, she noticed a bus, stopped at the lights, that was heading in the direction of Kellston, and ran to catch up with it. Grabbing the rail, she managed to swing herself onto the platform just as it was moving off. She swayed with the rhythm of the vehicle, found an empty seat near the front and sat down, slightly breathless, by the window. The conductor took her money and gave her a ticket.
Judith leaned her cheek against the glass, grateful for the coolness. She was hot and bothered, and had no idea of what she was going to do next. She felt safer, though, now that she was off the streets. The faint sense of panic began to subside, but it was not replaced by anything more comfortable. How was she ever going to find Dan if she carried on like this? She had to be strong, single-minded, determined, but these were all things she currently seemed to lack.
Staring out at the buildings, she could see that many of them, even after four years, still showed damage from the war. There was blasted brick and boarded-up windows. A cage of scaffolding covered many of the exteriors. There were gaps in the rows, places where theatres or shops or restaurants had once stood. It would take a long time to put everything right, if that was even possible. Some damage was irreparable.
The door to a hairdressing salon opened and a middle-aged woman with short iron-grey hair stepped out. There was something about her – the stiff back, the stern expression – that reminded Judith of her Aunt Laura. Judith had been orphaned at the age of six when both her parents had succumbed to a virulent strain of influenza. Her father’s older sister, a confirmed spinster without a maternal bone in her body, had taken her in, put a roof over her head and tried to make the best of an arrangement that suited neither aunt nor niece.
Judith had only vague, wispy memories of her parents: the floral scent of her mother’s perfume, the rough tweed of her father’s jacket. She often wondered what kind of person she might have been had they survived. Someone different, or just the same? Growing up had been a challenging and often lonely experience. Aunt Laura, who had no experience of children or any idea of how to relate to them, had treated her as an adult and communicated with her accordingly. This had made for a somewhat eccentric form of child-rearing, but Judith didn’t feel any resentment. Somehow they had muddled through. Although she had missed out on parental love and affection, she had at least learned the skills of self-reliance.
One of her aunt’s most favoured pieces of advice had been ‘Never depend on a man, my dear, not to look after you, not for anything.’ To this day Judith still didn’t know if her insistence on the matter was down to personal experience, an independent spirit or general prejudice against the male sex. Still, the instruction had been a useful one.
For all her aunt’s shortcomings as a surrogate mother, Judith was still grateful. Had it not been for her intervention, she would probably have grown up in a children’s home. She was aware that sacrifices had been made and future hopes thwarted in order that she could be fed and clothed and provided with a place to live.
Even as she thought about Aunt Laura, she sat up straighter. What she needed now was backbone. She had left Westport full of determination, and this wasn’t the time to let the situation get the better of her. Dan was out there somewhere and she was going to find him. London might be a scary place, full of strangers and people who didn’t want to talk – or, just as bad, a man she didn’t know who did want to talk – but none of it was going to get the better of her. Although she had never wanted to discover that her husband had left her high and dry, she felt more
alive than she had in a long time.
Within half an hour, they were back in Kellston. Judith got off the bus at the station and began walking up the high street towards Connolly’s. She would have some lunch while she figured out what to do next. When she was within a few feet of the café, she suddenly remembered the old lady at Boxley Street. Perhaps it was worth trying there again. There had been something in the woman’s face, a flicker of recognition, and if the daughter was out, Judith might be able to press for more information. It wasn’t much to go on, but slim leads were better than none.
She walked past Connolly’s, slowing to glance in through the window. Was Elsa there? She couldn’t spot her. Apart from the Yank – and his intentions had been dubious – the waitress was the only person who had shown any real interest, listening to her story without judging. In this hard, fast city, it wasn’t easy to find kindness. Hopefully Elsa would be around later.
The sun was still out and a light breeze caught her hair. She looked over the road towards a small park, an oblong expanse of green that afforded the only colour in an otherwise grey and dreary landscape. There were trees and bushes, a few benches, and a path that led through the middle to a row of houses at the far end. Maybe, if it was still warm, she would sit there for a while when she came back. No sooner had this thought crossed her mind than she heard footsteps behind her.
‘Judith!’
She stopped dead in her tracks, stunned. Her pulse started racing and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She would have known that voice anywhere. As she spun round, the shock was already registering on her face.
17
Judith had imagined the scene a thousand times: the locking of eyes, the mutual intake of breath, the nanosecond of stillness before they fell into each other’s arms. But this wasn’t like that. The man who stood before her was Dan, and yet he wasn’t. She was gazing at a stranger. He was thinner, his face gaunt, almost haggard, the cheekbones sharp as razors. But it was the way he was looking at her that made her blood run cold. His expression was blank, indifferent, as though he barely knew her.
