‘I’m actually looking for a living person,’ I said. ‘A young girl, about fifteen, thin. She’s on her own . . .’
‘She your daughter?’
‘No,’ I said, and then I added, ‘She’s been staying with our family. Her mum’s bombed out and—’
‘Oh, poor kid,’ the fifty-year-old said.
‘God love her,’ her companion chipped in.
But no, they hadn’t seen a girl like that on her own so I went on my way, aware that the two women and, indeed, many other people were watching my progress. If Velma was trying to hide herself away I was going to be easy to avoid. Between being asked whether I’d ‘come for Eddie’, ‘been sent by the Reverend Goody’ or being told to ‘Tell that bastard Cox he can have his money when our Gordon’s been paid’, there wasn’t much chance I could pass unnoticed. It was only when I moved down one of the small corridors that connects the eastbound to the westbound platform, where most people seemed to be asleep, that I managed to regain anything like a bit of peace. In fact if she hadn’t pulled on my coat to catch my attention, I would most certainly have stepped right over Velma. But she did pull my coat, which made me look down and see her dirty, desperate little face. She must, I thought, have finally got tired of all the noise, the smell and probably the hunger too.
The Duchess had knocked up some chapattis that morning, one of which I’d grabbed for later. It was wrapped in greaseproof in my coat pocket. I wondered what the hell Velma would make of it.
‘You should keep away from me, Mr Hancock,’ Velma said, as she sat up and I gingerly slotted myself down beside her.
I handed over the chapatti. ‘Eat this,’ I said. And when she opened it and pulled a face I said, ‘It’s an Indian pancake. My mum made it.’
I knew that Velma and the Duchess had got on famously. The girl began on the chapatti without further ado and with a ravenousness that was painful to watch. Christ knows when she’d last eaten. I rolled up and then lit a fag.
Once Velma had finished the chapatti she turned to me and said, ‘It ain’t safe for you to be with me, Mr Hancock.’
‘Why’s that, Velma?’
She put her head down and hugged her knees to her chest.
‘Is it because of the Dooleys?’
She looked up again sharply, her face white with fear. ‘They said that my mum was a murderer,’ she said. ‘They said she was going to hang and that if anyone tried to help her they’d kill them.’
‘Who said this?’
‘Johnny. Outside the police station.’
A deep, sucking sound heralded the arrival of a train and so, for the moment, Velma and I didn’t speak as the rails first hummed and then clattered under its weight. As the people got off, I put out my hand to Velma in case we should become separated. After a moment’s hesitation, she took it and we remained joined by our hands until all the passengers had either gone to the exit or joined the throng on the platform.
‘Who’s Johnny?’ I asked Velma, as soon as the train had gone on its way.
‘One of Kevin’s younger brothers,’ she said. ‘There’s Johnny, Ernie and Dickie, but it’s Johnny who’s really mad about Kevin and Mum and everything. And Martine. She’s in a right state, she is.’
‘Is that Kevin’s sister?’
‘No. She’s Johnny’s missus. She was really cut up about Kevin. She liked him. When they told her he was dead she cried and cried. Johnny had to slap her to stop it in the end.’
It was said with such innocence that it made me almost ashamed to have the thoughts I was having. But I had them anyway. All the men who’d visited me that afternoon had been younger than Kevin Dooley; the one who’d threatened me was probably Johnny. Johnny whose missus, Martine, was so devastated by the death of her brother-in-law she was reduced to hysteria. What, I wondered, was Johnny really so ‘mad’ about? And why was he so convinced of Pearl’s guilt? Did he, perhaps, know something no one else did? What, I couldn’t help thinking, had Johnny been doing on the night of Kevin’s death? The family had supposedly all been together. But Johnny’s behaviour made me wonder.
‘What do Johnny and his brothers do, Velma?’ I asked.
‘I dunno what Johnny does,’ she said, ‘but Martine always has nice things. Ernie’s in the navy and Dickie’s waiting to go in the forces. He’s only seventeen.’
You come across people like Johnny Dooley, blokes whose occupation is ‘uncertain’, in pubs, down back alleys. I even had one come to the shop once. He’d lifted his hat, put a big metal can in front of me and asked me if I wanted to buy any petrol. I took him out the back, showed him Rama and Sita, then threw him into the street.
‘Velma, do you know of anyone who has anything against your mum?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Anyone who doesn’t like her.’
‘Only Kevin’s mum,’ she said. ‘Johnny and all the others used to be all right with her until now. She was quite pally with Martine who did used to sometimes try and stop Kevin when he hit Mum. Sometimes he did too – stop, that is. But then all this happened and now they all hate Mum, even Martine . . .’
Up above, over the sound of the voices and the bodies down the tube, the piercing sound of the air-raid sirens wailed into life. For a moment, everything else went silent. People stopped whatever they were doing and looked up as if searching for the source of the warning up above.
‘The Jerries are coming,’ Velma said.
‘Y-y-yes.’
And I was deep underground.
Velma took my hand and said, ‘It’s all right, Mr Hancock, we’re safe down here.’
I tried to smile but knew from her face that I’d failed. Over on the eastbound platform they started singing ‘Roll Out The Barrel’.
Chapter Ten
Once the all-clear had sounded I persuaded Velma to come back with me. I told her about the visit I’d had from Johnny and his brothers and what they’d said, but I reckoned that if she stayed in the flat for the time being, she’d be all right. Anyway, the poor kid had to go somewhere and I knew that, if nothing else, the Duchess would take care of her. There was also Mr Blatt to consider. He wanted to speak to Velma so he could use what she said about the night Kevin died to help defend her mother. So, all in all, it was better she was with us, in spite of the risk from the Dooleys, for the time being.
When I got back to the shop, however, I found more than the coffin containing Cherry Hazlitt waiting for me. I decided to bring Velma in through the back door so the first person I saw as I entered the premises was Walter Bridges mucking out the horses. Arthur, who was doing his bit too, quickly made himself scarce. I told Velma to follow the boy in and wait for me in the kitchen.
‘I’m ever so sorry about—’ Walter began.
‘If you ever let me down like that again, you’ll have your cards,’ I said, without looking at him. I was too tired to want to listen to his apology. ‘We’ve an interment this afternoon at two,’ I continued, ‘a woman from a family of women, so you’ll have to drive and bear, and if I smell so much as a drop of the sauce on you I’ll hit you so hard not even your own mother’d recognise you after I’ve done.’
I went inside without another word to find Fred Bryant waiting to see me.
‘You found the kid, then?’ he said, as he watched Velma walk up the stairs with Nan. ‘Should’ve called us, Mr H.’
‘Yes. Well. Good, isn’t it?’ I said. I didn’t want to dwell on the fact that I’d been more successful than the police. After all, Fred and I knew that.
‘You know her mum’s solicitor, Mr Blatt, wants to talk to her?’ Fred said. ‘Building her defence case and that.’
‘Yes. I’ll let him know,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t want the Dooleys knowing too, Fred. They threatened Velma. She isn’t safe with them.’
‘They’re the nearest thing to family she’s got.’
‘Fred, she’s frightened of them,’ I said. ‘If you let them know where she is, you could be putting her in danger. You saw
for yourself how they called abuse after her when she left the station. She was so scared she wouldn’t even come back here and tell me!’
‘So, she want to make a complaint or—’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But look, Fred, they not only threatened Velma, they – or, rather, Johnny Dooley – threatened me too.’
‘Oh, so do you want to make—’
‘No, I don’t want to make a complaint either,’ I said. ‘Just keep that family away from here.’ I pulled the policeman to one side and lowered my voice. ‘Look, Fred, the Dooleys say they were all together on the night that Kevin died, all except Pearl and Velma.’
Fred frowned. ‘Now, you know I can’t discuss police work with you, Mr H.’
‘Johnny Dooley wants Pearl to go down,’ I said. ‘I don’t think he cares too much whether she’s guilty or not, but there’s something very dodgy about him.’ I didn’t go into what I’d made of Velma’s innocent observations about Kevin and Martine Dooley. After all, they were a child’s observations.
‘And how do you know Pearl isn’t guilty?’ Fred replied smartly.
‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘I just think that Johnny’s a bit . . . over-eager, shall we say?’
‘Evidence seems to point in Pearl Dooley’s direction at the moment . . .’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Everyone but her has got an alibi,’ Fred said. ‘Vi and all her lot, including Johnny and his missus, were down their Anderson. Went down as soon as the siren went. Watkins next door saw ’em go.’
‘Yes, but hard families like the Dooleys,’ I began, ‘they can intimidate…’
‘If other people support their story then that’s that,’ Fred responded bluntly. ‘Only Kevin, Pearl and Velma were out that night. He went out lunch-time and was in and out of pubs or making a general nuisance of himself in the street all day. His wife and her girl went out at about six and came home in the early hours of the next morning. Gawd knows where they’d been.’
‘Well, Dot Harris . . .’
‘Dot Harris, she says, spent the night alone,’ Fred said. ‘Like a lot of the old folk, she won’t go down no shelter. Them “ladies” she lives with don’t even bother to knock for her now. Whatever happened, no one saw Dot, Pearl or her girl all night.’
When the bombing started Hannah told me that Dot wouldn’t use the Anderson one of her mate Bella’s admirers had put up in the garden. Pearl could have been with Dot or, equally, elsewhere. Unlike Johnny she didn’t have an alibi. Also unlike Johnny, she wasn’t threatening people. She was just, so far as I could tell, continuing to maintain her innocence.
‘Anyway,’ Fred said, after a pause, ‘we’ve got Pearl in custody. She ain’t going nowhere so we got plenty of time to get all the evidence we need. There’s a war on but we’ll do it.’
I shook my head gloomily. What Fred had said put me in mind of Ken’s comments about the coppers having Pearl tried and hung already.
But then Doris arrived and, briefly, we all talked together about other things until she finally went upstairs to get the company books. We’d had a bit of money from one of our customers and Doris wanted to make a proper record of it. She’s very meticulous like that, which is just as well because I’m not. I do the funerals, I’m down there with the dead, as it should be.
Once I was on my own with him again, I said to Fred, ‘So, what do you want then, Fred? You must’ve come over here for some reason.’
‘Oh, yes, I did,’ the policeman said, as he put his hand into one of his pockets. ‘I come to give you this.’
It was a small piece of paper, folded in half.
‘It’s from your mate Pearl Dooley,’ Fred said. ‘But it’s all right. Guv’nor up Holloway’s seen it and my guv’nor down the station. Ain’t nothing bad.’
He left out that he and I both knew that Fred had read it too, but I let that pass and just said, ‘Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
Irony is something that is easily lost on Fred Bryant. So I let him witter on until he got bored with waiting for me to open Pearl’s letter and left. I occasionally punish his nosiness with just small acts of cruelty like this. As soon as he was out, I read it.
It said the following:
Dear Mr Hancock,
I’m writing to you because although I’ve got Mr Blatt now I think I can trust you. The coppers let me see Velma for a minute and she told me she told you everything. I know you put me in here but I think it’s only because you want what’s right. So do I. Because Ruby is in trouble as well as me I wonder if it’s anything to do with our mum and what she done. I wonder if someone knew where I went the night Kev died and killed him in a way so it looks like it could have been me. I don’t know who but I’m afraid it might be someone who knows who the Reynolds sisters are and wishes us and those close to us harm. I’m worried now about my sister Amber. I haven’t seen my other sister Opal since the coppers took her away when they come to get Mum. She was little and was adopted. Amber come with me and Ruby to the Nazareth Sisters Orphanage in Southend. She left there after me and I left in 1920. I don’t know what she did then, but the Sisters might know. Could you please try and find out where she is and tell her what’s happening? I know I’ve got a nerve, but I’m afraid for her.
Regards, Pearl Therese Dooley.
The letter read as if Pearl was afraid that someone, probably someone with a grudge, was setting up her and her sisters as murderers. To me, notwithstanding the way Kevin had died, it all seemed rather far-fetched that someone should do such a thing to innocent women after so many years had passed. But I showed it to Velma who, after asking who Mr Blatt was and what his connection to her mother might be, said, ‘Well, if he’s her lawyer then really he should look for Amber. You ain’t got time to go gallivanting down to Southend, have you, Mr Hancock?’
‘You know that Mr Blatt wants to talk to you, Velma,’ I said. ‘About your mum.’
‘Yes, but I don’t think she trusts him,’ Velma said darkly, as she looked down at the paper again. ‘The letter sort of says it, really.’ Which, in the sense of what it didn’t say, was true. ‘She certainly don’t trust him like she trusts you.’ Then she asked, ‘Why do you care so much, Mr Hancock, about Mum and me?’
‘I’ve been puzzling over that one,’ Nan said acidly, as she came in and sat down at the kitchen table, a dirty chamois leather fresh from the front parlour windows still in her hands.
It wasn’t an easy question to answer – not because I couldn’t, more that I was afraid they wouldn’t understand.
But I gave it a go anyway. ‘Well, first, I don’t think it’s right to kill people,’ I said. ‘And when I cleaned your step-father’s body and saw that mark on his chest I knew someone had taken his life. Even if I hadn’t met him that night and spoken to him, I think I would’ve known that something was wrong.’
‘How?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. My old dad used to have a name for it when a body comes in you don’t feel right about. He called it the Undertaker’s Third Eye.’
‘Third eye?’
‘It means seeing beyond to what really happened to that person,’ Nan said. ‘It’s a gift that allowed my father to raise the alarm with the police over more than one murdered soul.’
‘But all that aside,’ I said, ‘the point is, I think that if the law or the army or whoever want to kill people for committing crimes then they have to be very sure about who they’re condemning. It’s murder, to me, to shoot or hang a person who hasn’t committed a crime. I don’t care if it’s a mistake or not. That’s no excuse. It doesn’t matter if there’s a war on or not. You can’t just execute people and—’
‘Frank!’
Nan had heard a lot of this before, when I’d tried to tell her and the Duchess about what had really happened out there in the mud of Flanders. But she hadn’t wanted to listen then any more than she did now. Most people don’t, especially when your eyes, those of a grown man, fill with tea
rs.
‘Not in front of the kid, Frank!’
I turned away from my sister, towards Velma, and tried a smile. ‘So we always look for the truth, is what I’m saying, love.’ I wiped my eyes with my fingers and continued, ‘So, suppose the good old Essex seaside—’
‘But you ain’t got time to go to Southend!’ Velma said. ‘That could take all day.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and I am busy in the next few days. But you could go, couldn’t you, Velma? I’m sure you’re quite able to ask about your aunt at the convent. Nuns are, after all, good people. They’ll help you if they can. You could even take Miss Nancy with you, if she’ll go.’
Nan looked up sharply. ‘What?’
‘How do you fancy a day out in Southend visiting some Nazareth nuns?’ I said to my sister. ‘I’ll pay your train fare and—’
‘You know the trains get stopped every five minutes now, don’t you, Frank?’ Nan said. ‘They’re packed too. And there’s no buffet.’
‘Well, take sandwiches and a Thermos,’ I said. ‘I’ll make it up myself for you if you like.’
‘Oh, I think I can make a sandwich or two, Frank. That’s not the problem. But what about Mum?’
‘Well, if you go tomorrow, Aggie’ll be off shift and she can look after the Duchess,’ I said. ‘All you have to do is ask the nuns about Pearl’s sister and then . . .’
‘Well?’
‘If she’s still in Southend, go and visit her, if you can. Take your mum’s letter,’ I said to Velma. ‘Show it to her.’
‘And if this Amber isn’t in Southend, if she’s gone somewhere else?’ Nan asked.
I sighed. ‘Then you come home,’ I said. ‘Maybe you could buy a pint of whelks for tea.’
‘Frank!’
Velma laughed and then, obviously happy about the prospect of a trip out, she left the room. Alone with my sister now, I said, ‘It’ll also get her away from here and out of the reach of those Dooley brothers for a bit.’
Nan, for whom all this trouble over a dead stranger was just that – trouble – said she’d do it anyway – for me.
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