The Smog (A Jean Clarke Mystery Book 1)

by Timothy Allsop

  A few minutes later and she was on her way, albeit as slow as a funeral procession. The driver was being overcautious as he negotiated his way through the streets and to her dismay she found out that he had only been driving for three months. She kept glancing at her watch. It was already after one in the afternoon and she felt panic steadily rising in her as the minutes past. It devastated her to think that she might not see Charlie again. What were Phyllis and her brother playing at, associating with someone like Michael? She did not feel comfortable with Harry’s social group. The more she thought about the people involved, the less sense it made. A deep, serious quietness overcame her. It was surely Phyllis’s doing. She was perhaps the sort of woman willing to befriend flamboyant types but then again, the way Harry had looked away sheepishly when she had came back into Michael’s living room unnerved her. She did not want to think about it.

  She looked down at the paper. There was a picture of a woman in her early twenties and below read the caption: ‘Strangled woman of Stepney’. The story described a pitiable character. She was a widowed woman named Susan Arnold who had grown up in Whitechapel. She had left an eight-year-old son. The husband had been killed during the D-Day landings. What was doubly awful was that the woman herself had been orphaned but it seemed to make sense to Jean that tragedies ran in particular families. If some people were marked out for misfortune, she believed it was because of some terrible set of habits or circumstances being transmitted from one generation to the next. She wondered if this orphaned child of an orphaned mother would be able to escape his fate.

  Jean reached The Angel and stopped momentarily outside the door before entering, listening to the sound of laughter and voices from within. It took all her weight to shift the heavy door. She had never been into a city pub before, only the bars of hotels, but then her mother had always said pubs were for men. The air inside was drenched in smoke. As she looked around at the tables she saw a host of jaundiced hands propping up cigarettes. There was a stagnant smell of sweat. A ferrety publican was barely visible behind a line of men, crouching over their pints. For the most part, these men were ancient looking creatures, remnants of some failed genus that was slowly drinking itself into extinction. Their tattered faces were pallid, except for their noses which were bruised crimson from years of alcohol and this, combined with the deep wrinkles under their eyes and thick folds of skin around their necks, made them look more like molluscs than men.

  She could see no sign of Charlie so she went up to the bar and ordered a half of stout and found herself a free table. The stout tasted strongly of iron, but she liked it. She sat watching the men drink and as she cast her eyes about the room she noticed a small group of black men sitting at stools on the far side of the bar. She could not help but stare. One of them suddenly looked over at her and smiled, his fingers tracing the lip of his glass, but she looked away immediately. She felt foolish for her lack of manners. Still, she wanted to know who the man was and where he was from; she presumed he and his friends had travelled from the West Indies on the Windrush. Then she realized that she too was being stared at. In fact most of the pub was aware of her presence because there were only three women in the room and the other two were in the company of a lover or a male friend. She considered leaving but then thought better of it. It was interesting to see how the men were reacting to her. There were clearly a couple of the older folks who thought she was a tart, but there were others who did not know how to deal with her. Her eyes fell on two young men in army uniform, by far the two handsomest fellows in the room and she wondered what it might be like to have the freedom to date although she had no idea how she would go about it. That is where women like Phyllis always seemed to have the advantage, for beauty had always been their currency and so they had learned the tools of flirtation from a young age. For Jean the business of having to hang on a man’s every word seemed a tiresome act, but at the same time she still wanted to be desired. Peering down at her dress she tried to convince herself that she was just a lady out for a drink and that anything she wanted was there for the taking.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Charlie had emerged from a door at the back of the pub and noticed her straight away or rather he noticed the dress and even now as he spoke to Jean his gaze was not on her but on the garment she was wearing.

  ‘You need to go right now,’ he said, taking her under the shoulder and pulling her up in one deft move. ‘I can’t think why you’ve come here. You had no right.’

  ‘Why did you throw a brick though our window?’ she asked, pulling free from him.

  A couple of the punters turned to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about. Look you need to leave right now.’

  He glanced nervously back at the door.

  ‘I know it was you. I gave you our address. It had to be you,’ she said, returning stubbornly to her seat.

  ‘You must be half cracked. Why would I throw a brick through your window?’

  ‘Because you were angry when you found out Phyllis was married. She lied to you, didn’t she? You know where Phyllis is too. This is her dress, isn’t it?’

  ‘You don’t understand what kind of danger you’re putting us in by being here. Go please, for Phyllis’s sake.’

  He looked to the door again.

  ‘I want to see her,’ Jean said.

  ‘Well, let’s go then,’ but before he could say any more the door at the back of the pub opened. ‘Whatever you do don’t look at me.’

  Charlie immediately walked away from Jean’s table. He went round to the other side of the bar and started to order a drink. Jean turned to face the door and saw three men come out. The man at the front was dressed in black and immediately drew her attention because he was cadaverously pale. She remembered the descriptions her brother had given to Detective Hayward and when she saw the other two she knew these were the men who had attacked Harry. Looking down at her drink felt like the only thing she could safely do because she knew that if she raised her eyes she would either look at the men or at Charlie. She told herself to stay calm, and took a sip of her drink. She tried to act casually, as though she were waiting for someone, but as she lifted her glass to her lips she could see that the pale man was moving through the pub towards her table and as he walked by he stopped and looked at her dress and then at her face. Seeing her, he looked confused. Jean tried to act calmly and gave him a smile and then drained the last of her stout.

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ the man said.

  ‘I’ve never been here before,’ she answered.

  ‘You don’t sound like a local.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m visiting my brother.’

  The man looked her up and down.

  ‘That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing.’

  ‘Thank you. It was a gift from my husband,’ she replied.

  The man nodded and then turned to the bar and glanced at Charlie, who was engrossed in conversation with the barman.

  ‘Vince, we need to get back,’ said one of the pale-faced man’s associates.

  ‘Calm down. We’ve plenty of time.’

  He turned back to Jean.

  ‘I’m Vincent Moss,’ he said, offering an emaciated hand to Jean. ‘And this is my friend Kenneth.’

  ‘Jean,’ she answered, too scared to give her surname, unsure of whether it would cause trouble.

  ‘Well, where is your brother?’

  ‘He is running a little late,’ Jean said.

  ‘Is he a local boy? What’s his name?’

  ‘Harry,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘Harry Canning.’

  She wished she could have made up a better name.

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Vince, we need to go,’ Kenneth said again.

  ‘All right. I don’t need you telling me what to do.’

  ‘Well, be seeing you,’ Vincent said and gave Jean a little nod. As he made to leave a c
ouple of the other punters put up a hand to say goodbye, as did Charlie.

  Once Vincent had gone the noise of the patrons increased, and a palpable feeling of relaxation moved through the pub, and the men who had appeared so grotesque to Jean felt warmer now, some of them almost friendly. Charlie waited a few minutes before returning to Jean’s table.

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘He asked my name. Who is he to you?’

  ‘It doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Yes it does. He attacked my brother. You better explain yourself or I’ll chase those men and tell them Charlie Cannon knows where Phyllis is. I swear I will. I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘All right, but can we please go?’ Charlie said.

  They left the pub and as soon as they were outside she felt Charlie’s hand along her lower back, hardly touching but guiding her nevertheless. She made no attempt to pull away. She could see he was looking around, trying to work out if there was anyone lingering in the darkness. As they moved along the street, the feeling that she was losing herself returned and it comforted her.

  ‘Where did you get that dress?’

  ‘It was in my brother’s house. You’ve seen it before.’

  Charlie didn’t answer at first.

  ‘I knew she’d gotten married but she said she’d been estranged from him for well over a year. I had no idea she was still spending nights at his place until you turned up.’

  ‘So you are having an affair then?’

  ‘She said she was getting a divorce.’

  ‘And where did you think she was when she wasn’t with you?’

  ‘She said she lived with an aunt. I was angry when I found out the truth.’

  ‘So angry you put a brick through a window.’

  ‘I’m sorry about your house.’

  ‘It’s Harry’s home.’

  ‘I’m not a violent man. And she’s explained it all to me now.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s not a real marriage. I sort of understand that now.’

  ‘Not a real marriage?’

  Charlie wouldn’t answer.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she persisted.

  ‘That is something you need to ask your brother.’

  They walked on in silence. Jean felt troubled by Charlie’s words. He was supposed to be a distraction from her brother but, of course, it was a foolish idea to think she could turn her back on it all; everything was far more connected than she had first presumed. It reminded her of something her mother used to say: how people always left a smear on anything they touched. There was so much that was still uncertain. She tried to go over the facts in her head. Phyllis was married to her brother. Her brother had told her that they were still living together some of the time. Phyllis had spent time away, presumably with Charlie. They were lovers and for some reason they were in trouble and it was something do to with Vincent Moss. She could tell that Charlie was scared of him.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, realizing that she had paid no attention to which direction they had been walking.

  ‘A friend’s house,’ he said. ‘We can talk everything out and then you can tell your brother to keep his nose out of our business.’

  Charlie was behaving far more callously than the last time they were together. She felt hurt by his bluntness, but then she realized that he owed her nothing. Why should he give a damn about her? He didn’t know her from Eve and she was causing him nothing but trouble.

  After walking for what seemed an age they came to a set of Victorian flats. Charlie held open a large red metal door and led her up two flights of stairs until they reached a door with the number five on it. He knocked three times, slowly and deliberately. For a moment no-one answered and then she heard a woman’s voice.

  ‘Charlie?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  The door opened and standing in the doorway was Elma, the woman who worked in the café.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Elma said, giving Jean a cold stare.

  ‘It’s all right Elma.’

  He stepped aside and directed Jean into the hall. The flat was so warm that Jean removed her coat.

  ‘She’s just got out of the bath again. You’ll have to pay for all this hot water,’ Elma said, clearing up plates and cups from a coffee table in the living area and taking them through to the kitchen. ‘I know we agreed to help, but she treats this place like a hotel.’

  ‘I just been pulled in by Moss,’ Charlie said.

  Elma stopped what she was doing, came back through and looked at Charlie.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he wants me to do a job tonight.’

  ‘That’s too soon.’

  ‘It may be our only chance.’

  ‘He doesn’t suspect?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘If you have any doubts you need to leave Charlie. You both need to get the hell out of here tonight,’ Elma said, putting her hand on his chest. ‘Whatever Albert or any of the other men say, you need to think about the danger you’re putting yourself in.’

  ‘Moss doesn’t know. He wouldn’t let me drive if he knew.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘And what about her?’ Elma asked, shaking her head at Jean.

  Charlie looked at her with a mixture of resignation and anxiety, his eyes searching Jean’s for some answer to a question he had not directly asked. Could she be trusted? That is what his eyes were saying. His nervousness made her uneasy too but she tried to maintain a resolute demeanor.

  ‘I better show you.’

  Charlie walked along the hall and knocked on another door.

  ‘Love, can you come out here, please?’

  A voice came from the other side.

  ‘I haven’t done my hair.’

  ‘Just come out,’ Charlie said, with frustration.

  The door opened and out stepped Phyllis, barefoot and wearing a blue crinoline dress, her hair half dried and uncombed and her face flushed from her recent bath, but still she was unquestionably beautiful. She came forward into the light of the living room and looked at Jean coldly, her sharp eyes taking in her sister-in-law’s appearance.

  ‘I never liked that dress.’

  EIGHT

  ‘This is just the sort of thing I expected of Harry,’ Phyllis said, running her hand through her hair, tugging hard at a couple of knots. ‘Sending someone else to do what he should do himself. And you of all people. What was the damn fool thinking?’

  Jean convinced herself that finding Phyllis would be the answer to everything, that the simple act of discovery would be enough to right the world and make it a recognizable shape to her once more. But it didn’t feel like that at all. In truth she felt nothing but awkward but in the face of such feelings she tried to be practical.

  ‘He is looking for you. He has been everywhere looking for you,’ Jean answered, feeling utterly self-conscious in Phyllis’s clothes. Phyllis didn’t seem to find any solace in the possibility Harry was out looking for her.

  ‘I need to fetch a brush before this hair dries or I’ll have to start over.’

  She disappeared for a moment and then called from the door.

  ‘You’ve found me now so you can tell him to stop worrying.’

  ‘But there are some things which need explaining and then there is the matter of the police. They are looking for you.’

  ‘You hear that? I told you there would be police sniffing about,’ Charlie said.

  Phyllis came back with a brush and gave Charlie a hard stare.

  ‘That’s hardly the worst we’ve got to worry about. Look, can I have five minutes alone with my…’ she hesitated and then continued, ‘with my sister-in-law?’

  Jean couldn’t tell if Phyllis was deliberately trying to hurt Charlie by reminding him of her deception over her marriage, but she had done so nevertheless. Phyllis took Jean by the h
and and led her down the hallway to a little box room in which Elma had made up a single bed.

  ‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ Phyllis said, directing Jean to sit down on her bed because there was nowhere else to sit. ‘You and your mother made it clear that you weren’t very happy with Harry’s choice of wife.’

  ‘We never meant to make you feel like that,’ Jean said, looking around at the packing cases and bags, which she presumed contained all of Phyllis’s belongings.

  ‘Well you did and I suppose you now feel you have a right to know everything that’s happened,’ she said.

  ‘But I don’t really know what has happened between you and Harry. All I know is my brother is worried sick because his wife has gone off with no by or leave.’

  ‘So you haven’t told him about Charlie?’

  ‘I didn’t know about you and Charlie until now. Not for sure. I suspected after I told Charlie where we lived and the next thing I know we’ve a brick through our window but Harry…’

  ‘Sorry, what? Did you say Charlie threw a brick? A brick?’ Phyllis said, with her mouth open trying to comprehend the idea of a brick. She swung open the door and went out into the hall. ‘Did you throw a bloody brick through Harry’s window? What the hell are you playing at Charlie?’

  Phyllis launched herself at Charlie and smacked him hard across his chest.

  ‘What kind of behaviour is that? You always have to think with those brainless fat fists of yours,’ she shouted, using her own fists to educate him on his foolish behaviour.

  Jean watched from the door. Charlie stood still and let himself be pushed a couple of times before answering.

  ‘I had a right to be angry. You never told me you were married and frankly, sweetheart, that nancy boy deserves everything he gets. Tricking you into a thing like marriage because it suited him. It’s despicable,’ he said. ‘He was lucky it was only a brick through his window. A man like him ought to be castrated.’

  Phyllis went to slap him but he caught her hand and held it.

  ‘Don’t you be nasty about him,’ she said, pulling away. ‘He did not trick me into anything.’