He knocked again.
‘Elma? It’s Charlie and some friends. Are you in there?’
There were footsteps and a moment later the door opened and a red faced Elma stood stock still holding a pan of water.
‘What’s wrong Charlie? I was just fixing some supper,’ Elma said, looking at the men.
‘Sorry to trouble you. You mind if we come in for a moment?’ Vincent said, pushing by Charlie and into the flat without waiting for an answer.
The larger man, Kenneth, followed him and immediately he began to check each of the rooms. Charlie looked at Elma, whose face was as hard as stone.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’ she asked.
‘Not really. My friend just gets nervous and likes to know his surroundings. He’ll join us in a minute. So, you’re a friend of Charlie’s?’
‘Yes, I know his mum well,’ she said, but she stopped abruptly, concerned that anything she said might give the game away.
‘And how do you know Jean, Elma?’ Vincent persisted.
Elma glanced at Jean. There was only a moment of hesitation.
‘Jean is Charlie’s friend.’ She looked to Harry and then back at Moss. ‘I must get on. I must get to work.’
Jean could see that Elma was trying to play stupid.
‘I’m sure you must. We won’t be a moment. You all right Ken?’ Moss shouted.
They all of them stood for a moment in silence, listening to the sound of the large man, Ken, moving about in one of the bedrooms. After a minute or so he emerged and moved over to them and shook his head. Vincent bit his bottom lip and nodded.
‘Charlie, let’s head back to your place.’
‘Are you looking for anything?’ Charlie asked.
‘Nothing in particular. Shall we go?’
‘I need to drop Jean off at the station first,’ Charlie said.
‘We’ll sort that out in a bit. Newman will be waiting.’ Vincent turned to Elma and gave her a pleasant smile. ‘Sorry to have troubled you, Elma.’
Elma had been trying as best she could to efface her presence by standing still by the open front door, but now Vincent had his eyes on her and Jean could see they had a devilish tenacity in them.
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Where are you from by the way?’
‘Italy.’
‘Did you come over here by yourself?’
‘I am sorry I do not understand. My English is so-so.’
Moss nodded slowly, listening carefully to what she said.
‘Are you alone here?’
‘Alone, yes.’
‘Why did you come here?’
Elma shook her head.
‘To work.’
‘It’s funny, isn’t it?’
‘What is?’ Charlie said.
‘Less than ten years ago and this woman would have been an enemy and yet here she stands in our tenement block, barely able to speak our mother tongue and she’s about to leave for work. Who would have thought it? Still, we can’t hold grudges forever.’
Jean could see the violence in Elma’s eyes and she suspected that Vincent Moss could see it too and that he knew she could understand every word he was saying.
‘Well, let’s not hang about Charlie,’ Vincent said.
Jean was curious to know how Phyllis had managed to escape. Perhaps there had been another way to get out of the flat or perhaps she’d hidden herself somewhere. They must have planned it well. The knocks on the door, the relatively short time Elma took to come and answer it. What troubled her was her own presence. She had indeed put them at risk by wearing Phyllis’s dress and by interfering. Now she began to feel foolish for ever thinking that she had a right to play detective. What good was it doing her? Vincent Moss had the quiet menace of someone dangerous. He was too measured and polite in his manner. He was intelligent too and had given her such a piercing look as though he knew she did not belong.
As they stepped outside into the cold she knew this was her last chance to run. The smog offered her the opportunity to flee back to Harry. They could find her, she supposed, if they questioned Charlie hard enough, but she doubted Charlie would want them to find her. He was doing his best to keep Phyllis hidden from them. They reached a black car and the other associate, Les, opened the door. This was the moment to run, but she didn’t. She let her body slip into the car and knew that she was now depending upon Charlie’s goodwill to keep her safe. Perhaps in a way that was why she was doing it. She was giving herself up to him in the hope that he would tell her the truth. It felt imperative to her now that she should know everything about Phyllis and him. In some way she felt like she was taking up the slack from her brother, who had clearly been working for his own interests all this time. He had wanted those letters back and nothing more. She wanted to read through all of them but it terrified her to think what further tawdry details she would uncover. The letters along with what Charlie and Phyllis had revealed made her feel deeply uncomfortable. Independently the evidence wouldn’t have amounted to anything substantial but together with her visit to Michael’s house, it was condemning. Her brother had been living a secret life, which had sprung from a wartime affair with a man and now he was living God knows what type of life in London. It made her angry to think about it. While Phyllis had played her part, Jean couldn’t help but put the blame squarely on her brother.
The car moved cautiously through the London streets. There was no conversation as they drove. Charlie remained with his gaze fixed to the window, and she could tell he was trying to work something out. She began to consider that it was not so unbelievable that Phyllis might fall in love with this kind of a man. He was certainly unrefined but she could see that he was a fast thinker and unquestionably attractive. She wondered what the nature of their courtship had been if such a word was appropriate to use. Had Charlie merely set eyes on her and decided that she was what he desired? Perhaps it was the other way round. After all Phyllis could hardly be described as a shrinking violet. Jean wished she possessed the same power to attract, although it seemed it had caused Phyllis nothing but difficulty. She had some success with the provincial office worker friends of her father’s but that now felt utterly mundane. Her youth had been what appealed to them and that was fast fading, and it depressed her to think that she was far more intelligent than most of them and certainly had far more interesting things to say.
They reached Charlie’s and climbed out of the car. Jean noticed Charlie clock a black Vauxhall saloon, which was parked directly in front of them. She could see someone sitting in the driver’s seat. Vincent let Charlie lead the way while his friend followed behind her. Jean could tell as soon as they walked through the door that the house felt different. There was a bitter smell of urine. Charlie went straight into the living room, and both Jean and Vincent followed. Charlie’s mother was seated in her chair, a terrified look on her face, and her gown soaked through. Arthur was pressed up against the window, equally scared, and his hands fiddled with the buttons on his filthy shirt. Jean noticed a young blonde-haired man standing next to the fire, greedily taking what little heat came from it, and she wondered if this was the other fellow who had attacked Harry. The man gave Jean a cold inquisitive stare and it frightened her.
‘Hello, Mr Newman,’ Charlie said, with a degree of reverence.
‘How are things Charlie?’
It was then Jean saw another figure. He had made himself almost invisible, tucked up in a corner, leaning against the wall: a slight man dressed in a tightly fitted wool suit. His hair was thick and greying and his face possessed gentle features. He stood with one arm folded and the other leaning on it, reaching up to his chin where a large hand fondled at his whiskers.
‘Who is this young lady?’ Newman asked.
‘It’s not what you think,’ Charlie answered quickly.
‘You don’t know what I’m thinking.’
Newman moved away from the wall and moved forward to meet Je
an.
‘Newman,’ he said, offering a colossal hand.
Jean took it and returned his greeting with a thin smile managing only to say her first name.
‘This is no way to look after your mother,’ Newman said, shaking his head.
‘He looks after me fine,’ croaked Mrs Cannon, looking as stern as a brick. ‘Why don’t you get out of our house? If my husband were here, he’d give you boys a thrashing.’
‘Ah yes, Barney Cannon. We all knew your husband,’ said Newman, taking a seat in the spare armchair and crossing his legs. ‘I remember dropping some food over for you at the start of the war. It was a few months before I was drafted. Charlie, you must have been about fourteen and you were sat on the kerb with Arthur playing a game where you try and land a penny on top of another and your old man comes out and smacks you round the head and says: ‘What made you so rich that we could afford to throw pennies on the street?’ He gave you one heck of a good hiding.’
Newman turned his eyes to the window and gave a wistful smile as though he were trying to conjure up his younger self.
‘You were good to keep an eye on us,’ Charlie said.
‘We all looked out for each other then. Shared what little money we had. I appreciated that. I remember your father bought my mother a loaf of bread one winter when my father was out of work,’ Newman continued. ‘Where did you two meet then?’ The question came suddenly and was directed at both Charlie and Jean.
‘At a bar,’ Charlie answered.
‘We don’t really know each other,’ Jean continued, wondering whether Vincent would interrupt but he remained silent.
‘Well I won’t stay long. I just wanted to check that everything was all right for this evening Charlie?’
‘Yeah. I’ve told Vincent that already,’ Charlie replied, calmly.
‘Good. We’ve arranged for a car to come at five. They’ll be another one when the job is done, but I have Walsh on that already. You’ll leave here at just after five and Jack will go along with you,’ Neman said, looking over to the young man at the fireplace.
‘I don’t need him along for the ride,’ Charlie said, looking agitated. ‘He’s rude and behaves like a thug.’
‘You don’t need to worry about Jack. He’ll behave himself. He’s just young and doesn’t know what to do with himself half the time. You have to remember Charlie, we had the war to satisfy us, but these youngsters, well they like fighting just for the sake of it. I’m helping them use it in the right way. Did I tell you the story of when I was in Paris and this fellow Carver and I broke into three German bank safes? We took over two hundred and fifty thousand francs and the British Army gave us a medal for it. People want to forget too quickly what we did for this country. You remember how hard it was Charlie, that winter of forty-seven with all the layoffs and the fuel shortages. Now someone like Jack doesn’t understand how hard it’s been for us, and he doesn’t know how to focus all that excess energy he has, but like any man he has to let off steam. He just needs to know who’s in charge. Isn’t that right Jack?’
‘Yes, Mr Newman.’
‘I still don’t want him in the car.’
‘Well I’m afraid I do, Charlie and that’s how it’s going to be on this one.’ Newman continued in a quiet voice, ‘You’ll do all right out of it. You can get some decent food in the house. Looks like your brother could do with some weight on him. How about it Arthur?’
‘He’s still growing, that’s all it is,’ Charlie’s mother answered, breaking into a cough.
‘Looks as if he could do with a bit of faith and hope round his ears too. Do you want to come and work for me Arthur? I’ll buy you a new shirt.’
‘I work for me brother,’ Arthur said.
Newman gave Arthur a steady look and then smiled.
‘Of course, you do. Your brother’s a good man. Always puts his family first.’
Newman shifted in the room, glancing at both Vincent and Jack.
‘This is the last one,’ Charlie said, suddenly.
‘Sorry?’
‘This is the last one I’m going to drive. I’m tired of it.’
‘Whatever you want Charlie. You only do what you want. I’ve always been very clear about that.’
Newman looked down at his hands and Jean watched his face and saw that he wore a strange expression, as though his hands were not his own but elusive parts of someone long gone or of some part of his self that no longer existed.
‘By the way, you haven’t had any word about Phyllis, have you Charlie?’ Newman asked in a measured voice, his hands dropping slowly to his sides.
Jean focused her eyes on the arm of the chair in which Charlie’s mother was seated. She couldn’t tell if Newman was looking at her or not.
‘Phyllis? No. Has she still not turned up?’
Jean tried to give Charlie a causal look but she couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been to put on Phyllis’s dress. Perhaps Newman didn’t recognize it, but then Vincent had and he would surely tell Newman soon enough of his suspicions.
‘Shame. I can’t understand it. I just want to speak to her.’ He paused for a moment and looked vaguely towards Charlie’s mother. Jean could see Newman was stirred up about something but whatever it was, he almost immediately buried it. ‘It’s important that I speak with her.’
‘Well I’ll let you know.’
‘Do.’
‘Right. Well I’ll be off. I’m leaving Jack here with you until the car arrives. I’ll see you in a few days. Lovely to meet you Jean.’
Jean looked at him but only managed a twitch of a smile.
‘You look perfectly splendid in that dress. Too good to be hanging around with the likes of us hey, Charlie?’
Newman gazed at her as though she were no longer herself but a woman with whom he’d shared a past. There was a look of disappointment in his eyes. It was clear to Jean that he was looking not at her but at Phyllis.
‘No good ever comes from hanging around with people like us,’ he said, but this time quietly and Jean was unsure now if he was speaking to her as well.
Charlie forced out a snort of a laugh and Newman turned his eyes to the floor.
‘Good luck with it Charlie. You’re the best driver we have.’
Newman walked out of the room and the rest of the men followed. Arthur vainly looked from behind the curtain to see them leave. Jack came back into the room and hovered in the doorway, removing a cigarette from a box. They were American cigarettes.
‘Charlie? Charlie? What’s going on?’ his mother called out.
The door shut and Jack moved to the fireplace. For a moment Charlie stood in the doorway, looking up the stairs, hoping for some miraculous intervention and then came back into the living room, an expression of cadaverous vacancy on his face.
‘It’s all right mother.’
‘Why are all these strangers in here?’
He turned and looked at Jack.
‘You don’t need to stay.’
‘It’s no bother Charlie,’ Jack answered. ‘Just obliging the boss.’
Jean gave the boy the once over and decided that he was no more than nineteen or twenty and clearly thought himself, as most twenty year old men tended to do, as the centre of the universe.
‘Arthur, will you go and fetch a clean gown for mother?’
Arthur scratched his head anxiously, eyed Jack and skittered by his brother.
‘I need to take Jean home,’ Charlie said.
‘She has to stay here.’
‘Now come on Jack. There’s no need to be foolish about this.’
Jack’s face tightened at the mention of his being foolish and Jean began to think that there was something dangerously out of control about him.
‘You watch your tongue Charlie boy. You’re in enough trouble as it is,’ Jack said, giving Jean the once over with his eyes.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You can’t seem to keep your e
yes on one girl, can you?’
Jack again turned his attention to Jean. Charlie took a step towards the boy, a fierce expression spreading across his face. There was a moment of readjustment from both of them, a silent negotiation in which each made an almost imperceptible shift of his body.
‘I don’t know what you’re going on about but you are the one who should watch what he says,’ Charlie said, assuming an air of bravado.
‘Common knowledge. You had your hands all over one of Newman’s girls. The one that’s gone missing. Surprised Newman hasn’t given you the heave ho already,’ Jack said, looking at Jean to see how she would react.
Jean glanced at Charlie, who was staring blankly at Jack, but she could tell by the way his head was tipped slightly downward that he was at breaking point. Jack seemed to see it too, but took pleasure in his provocation, drawing slowly on his cigarette. Something had passed between them. Jean wondered if Jack had been smitten on Phyllis too or perhaps there had been another woman. Men seemed to have an endless supply of antagonisms toward one another.
‘And now you have the cheek to rub some new tart in Newman’s face. I reckon he’s just about had enough of you. Wouldn’t put it past him to give you a little bit of rope and let you finish the job yourself.’
Charlie made to throw a punch but Jack had been expecting it and shifted his weight out the way so that Charlie slammed into the fireplace. By the time he had turned Jack had removed a small knife from his back pocket and had the blade calmly held out in front of him.
‘Get out of here. Get out,’ Charlie’s mother screamed.
Jean positioned herself between the two men as Arthur appeared in the doorway.
‘I’ll make you smile from ear to ear if you come near me again,’ Jack said, turning the knife in his hand.
‘Stop it, the both of you,’ Jean said, looking Jack straight in the eye.
Charlie’s mother started coughing and couldn’t stop.
‘You fetchin’ her some water or what?’ Jack said, slowly lowering the knife.
‘Arthur,’ Charlie said.
Arthur put the gown down and went to find his mother a glass. Charlie shifted his mother in her chair so she was sitting up straighter. She’d closed her eyes from the pain of coughing and was still hacking away when Arthur returned with the water.
The Smog (A Jean Clarke Mystery Book 1) Page 15
