‘Wait a moment, Jo,’ Mattie said, coming to a breathless stop in front of her. ‘I’m sure you’ve . . . heard that—’
‘Blue Squad have been arrested?’ said Jo.
‘Yes,’ said Mattie, putting a hand on her heaving chest. ‘And I just . . . want . . . to say—’
‘That you were right about Tommy Sweete,’ cut in Jo. ‘And perhaps now I’ll realise that you telling Mum about catching us together was for my own good.’
Mattie glared at her. ‘No . . . I was actually . . . going to say—’
‘Mrs McCarthy!’
Mattie turned around and looked across the hall at the warden standing on the stage next to the desk holding the red telephone receiver aloft.
‘It’s Mr Granger,’ he called.
Mattie shouted something back but Jo didn’t hear her sister’s reply because the doors were already swinging shut behind her as she dashed from the hall.
*
After a half-mile dash through the blacked-out streets, Jo ran up the few steps into Arbour Square police station. Grasping the long handle on the door, she yanked it open.
Although the temperature outside was close to freezing, in the inner sanctum of Stepney’s main police station the atmosphere was cloying and smelt of bodies and fried food. If it hadn’t been for the telephones on the desks and the tinny sound of the police car radios crackling, what with the blackout shutters in place and the low wattage light bulbs, you could be forgiven for thinking you’d slipped back in time to when the police station was built seventy years before.
The public counter was some six feet long and flanked on both sides by a wall, behind which the low hum of male voices could be heard.
At the far end of the room, half-hidden by a frosted-glass screen, were a couple of young constables chatting to an older colleague who was pointing at a map of the area, while a policewoman sitting at the desk next to a filing cabinet was bashing away on an antiquated typewriter.
None of them looked over as she stood waiting to be attended to, so Jo hammered her palm on the bell.
A beefy-looking policeman with three chevrons and a crown stitched to the upper arms of his uniform appeared from around the corner.
Red-faced with an impressive set of sandy-coloured mutton-chops, he gave Jo the once-over.
‘Yes?’ he asked, opening the leather-bound station register on the desk and taking the pen from the inkwell.
‘Um . . . I believe you’ve got Tommy Sweete in your cells for some burglary two weeks ago,’ said Jo.
‘What of it?’
‘Well, he didn’t do it,’ said Jo. ‘Steal from Upington’s warehouse or kill Warden Potter, that is.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he was with me,’ said Jo, in a small voice.
‘And who are you?’
‘Miss Brogan,’ said Jo. ‘Miss Josephine Brogan.’
The officer’s moustache waggled from side to side as he chewed his lips for a moment then he jabbed his pen back where it came from.
‘Hanson!’ he barked.
A fresh-faced young officer with a prominent Adam’s apple and shaving rash stepped out from behind the partition.
‘Yes, Sergeant Mills.’
‘This is Miss Josephine Brogan and she says Tommy Sweete couldn’t have been screwing the Upington warehouse or bonking the ARP warden on the head cos he was with her,’ said the sergeant.
‘Is that so?’ said the constable.
‘Yes,’ said Jo. ‘We were at his mother’s flat.’
‘All night?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Jo firmly.
‘Doing what?’ asked the constable.
Jo felt her cheeks glow hot.
Mills sneered. ‘What do you think?’
The constable’s eyes slid over her. ‘Lucky bugger.’
Squaring her shoulders, Jo held the two officers’ lewd stares. ‘So now Tommy’s got an alibi you can let him go, can’t you?’
Scorn flickered in the sergeant’s eyes. ‘Constable Hanson, could you tell this young lady how many of the Sweete brothers’ dollies we’ve had in here wasting our time so far?’
‘Four, I believe,’ said the constable. ‘All giving it that the Sweete boys were with them.’
‘But Tommy was with me.’ Jo gripped the edge of the counter. ‘He was. I swear it.’
Placing his spade-like hands on the mahogany surface, Sergeant Mills loomed over her. ‘If that’s the case, you won’t mind standing up in court on Monday when he comes up before the Beak.’
‘But couldn’t I make a statement now?’ said Jo, as the thought of telling a crowded court that Tommy was innocent because he’d been in bed with her flashed through her mind.
‘You could,’ said the desk sergeant, ‘but we’ve got better things to do. Reggie’s got one of those shysters from Glasson and Webb to represent him and his brother so why don’t you trot along and tell them? Now, if there’s nothing else, I’d thank you to sling your hook.’
Slamming the station ledger shut, he and Constable Hanson disappeared back from whence they came, leaving Jo standing at the counter.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WITH HIS BACK wedged against the cold white wall tiles behind him, Tommy sat with feet on the wooden bench, his arm across his knees, staring at the small oblong window high above his head.
Judging by the light seeping into the cell between the tightly packed bars and the noise of steel-tipped boots marching back and forth along the concrete corridor outside, he guessed it must be just after nine on Monday. Two whole nightmare days since Tovey’s men had dragged out the hoard of stolen silver from under his mother’s bed.
The spyhole snapped open for a second then snapped shut again. Tommy looked up as the key jangled in the lock and the cross bolts shifted, then the door creaked open.
Two blank-faced prison officers marched in dragging Reggie, with a fresh black eye and blood crusted around his nose, between them.
Tommy swung his legs off the bench and stood up.
‘You two are up next so don’t get too comfortable,’ one of them said, shoving Reggie in.
He stumbled but regained his balance and swung around, lunging at them as they slammed the door in his face.
‘Bloody brave, aren’t you, two against one,’ Reggie yelled, kicking the metal with the sole of his boot. ‘Ain’t got the balls to face me man to man, have you, poxy scum?’
He kicked the door again. Pulling down the front of his suit jacket, he turned. ‘I wondered if you’d be here.’
‘Of course I’m bloody well here,’ shouted Tommy, springing forward and grabbing his brother’s lapels. ‘Where else would I be after you—’
‘All right, all right,’ barked Reggie, trying to break free from Tommy’s grip. ‘Keep your ruddy hair on and your fucking voice down.’
Tommy shot a glance towards the grey-painted iron door. Giving his brother a final shake, he threw him from him.
Reggie shot him a belligerent look which Tommy returned, balling his fists as he battled the urge to smash both into his brother’s face.
‘I’ve spent the whole bloody weekend banged up in a cell under Arbour Square nick because of you,’ Tommy snarled, under his breath.
‘You were ruddy lucky, weren’t you?’ Reggie replied in the same low tone. ‘Tovey threw me into one of those cesspits under Wapping nick for two days.’
‘Good,’ spat Tommy. ‘I hope it gives you piles.’
A pair of size-nine hobnail boots marched along the concrete passageway outside the cell and the two brothers studied the door until the footsteps passed their cell.
Sending Reggie a hateful look, Tommy threw himself down on the bench and resumed his former position. Reggie paced back and forth a couple of times then took up a similar spot at the other end of the wooden seat.
They sat in silence for a moment and then Tommy looked across at his brother. ‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Plead not guilty, of
course,’ Reggie replied.
‘I meant about me,’ said Tommy.
Reggie looked baffled. ‘What about you?’
Tommy looked incredulously at his brother. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘Neiver was I,’ said Reggie, studying a point just above Tommy’s head.
‘In case you haven’t heard,’ Tommy ground out, ‘along with burglary, we’re both up on a murder charge, which is a capital offence.’
‘They’ll never make it stick,’ said Reggie, dismissing his words with a wave. ‘It’ll be involuntary manslaughter at most.’
‘That’s still twenty yea—’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Reggie, shifting his attention back onto Tommy. ‘Why didn’t that Paddy on Green heavy tell Tovey you were with him?’
Tommy frowned. ‘Because I wasn’t on duty that night.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At the flat.’
‘By yourself?’
Tommy didn’t answer.
‘Oh, now I get it,’ laughed Reggie.
‘I can’t drag her into this,’ said Tommy, ‘which is why I’m asking you, as my brother, to come clean and tell the rozzers I’ve got nothing to do with any of this.’
Reggie held his gaze for a long moment then shook his head.
‘Sorry, Tommy boy, you better get your bird to give you an alibi or . . .’ He shrugged. ‘You know the rules.’
Tommy stared at him for a moment then, springing to his feet, he grabbed Reggie by his jacket.
Dragging his brother off the bench, Tommy smashed him against the wall. Reggie broke free of his grip and swung a punch but Tommy ducked. Circling around, Reggie tucked in his head and charged at Tommy in an attempt to wind him but his younger brother twisted at the last moment and Reggie crashed into the wall.
Clenching his right fist, Tommy punched Reggie’s jaw, sending him reeling back. Stepping between Reggie’s flailing arms, Tommy grasped the front of his jacket again and pinned him against the wall. Reggie struggled but Tommy leaned his weight into him and held him firm. Catching his breath, he thrust his face into his brother’s until he could smell the blood oozing from his brother’s busted lip.
‘If I go down for this, Reggie,’ Tommy said, staring eyeball to eyeball with Reggie, ‘then I swear I’ll—’
The jangle of the key turning in the lock and the bolts sliding back cut off Tommy’s voice. The cell door creaked open. Without relinquishing his grip on his brother, Tommy looked round to see the doorway filled with the same bovine-looking court officers who’d thrown Reggie in the cell earlier.
The one on the right, who had a couple of medal ribbons from the last war pinned on his chest, grinned.
‘Ah, bruverly luv!’ he said. ‘Ain’t it touching?’
With the metal from the handcuffs biting into his wrists and fury still raging through him, Tommy was bundled through the prisoners’ door and into the crowded courtroom ten minutes later.
The officer behind him poked him with his baton and Tommy trudged up the three steps into the dock to join Jimmy, who was already there.
‘Where’s Fred?’ he muttered as Tommy shuffled along next to him.
The police officer jabbed Jimmy in the side. ‘Button it.’
Thames Magistrates’ Court had been built at the same time as the police station it was attached to and, as such, had the same solid red-brick exterior. However, unlike its counterpart, the court did its best to emulate a middling country house. Although the holding cells were sparse and cold, the main courtroom, with its high-ceilinged, oak-panelled interior, had more than a touch of the upper crust about it.
Police officers milled about in the sectioned-off area in front of the magistrate’s bench, while the local press and friends and family of the accused were squashed into the public gallery. This small space could comfortably accommodate twenty or so people but today it was jammed packed with something close to double that number as word had got around that the Sweete brothers were standing in the dock accused of murder.
As the clock above the public-gallery door was now showing eleven o’clock, magistrate Sir Randolph Ewing JP, who had already been dispensing summary justice to the miscreants of East London for two hours, called for order. If his sour expression, under full bonnet and horsehair wig, was anything to go by, it had not been a good morning so far.
Ewing had been the resident magistrate at Thames Court for as long as Tommy could remember. His unwavering view on those he cast his judicial eye over was that they were the un-reformable scum of the earth and he sentenced accordingly.
‘All right, Officer, I know the way,’ said Reggie, as he bowled up the steps to the dock.
A murmur went around the public gallery as people nudged each other and pointed across. A couple of women who Tommy vaguely recognised as being members of his brother’s scattered harem waved and blew kisses.
Barging past Tommy, Reggie took centre stage in the enclosure, acknowledging their tributes with a jaunty smile and a wink.
Of course, that was part of the ‘rules’, too. Showing bravado and contempt for those who put you in the dock was expected, but Tommy wasn’t impressed.
The magistrate finished scribbling on the papers in front of him and handed them to the clerk.
He peered over his glasses at the court. ‘Next.’
Tommy turned his attention back to the man sitting behind the bench.
A clerk in a black gown and with ink on his fingers shuffled the papers on the desk in front of him and rose to his feet.
‘The crown versus Thomas James Sweete, Reginald Raymond Sweete and James William Rudd, Your Worship,’ he said in a ponderous plummy voice. ‘For one count of murder and two counts of burglary in that on the night of the twenty-eighth of November last the accused did break in and steal a safe containing £2,362 and 17s of company wages and commemorative silver estimated to be between £300 and £350 from Upington and Sons. They are further charged that during the course of said burglary they did murder a Mr Cyril Robert Potter, senior air raid warden at Civil Defence Post 7.’
The magistrate gazed around at the handful of lawyers sitting at the benches in front of him as they waited for their clients to appear before him. ‘Is there representation?’
A sallow-faced individual wearing a tired-looking suit stood up. ‘Yes, Your Worship, Glasson and Webb will be representing the defendants and ask for bail for all three defendants on the grounds that they are local men and of good character.’
There was an outbreak of laughter in the public gallery and murmurs of ‘he’s having a joke’ and ‘who’s he trying to kid’. Reggie grinned but Tommy remained stony faced.
The public-gallery door opened to the side of Tommy and there was a small commotion as people shuffled around to accommodate the late-comer.
The magistrate shifted his gaze to Inspector Tovey. ‘Any objections?’
The policeman sprang to his feet. ‘Yes, Your Worship. Due to the serious nature of the crime, the police strongly object to bail.’
‘I should think so, too,’ said Sir Randolph, casting a contemptuous eye over the three men in the dock. ‘Bail denied. The defendants will remain—’
‘No,’ shouted a voice from the gallery. ‘Tommy Sweete wasn’t there.’
Tommy turned around to see Jo, looking a picture as always in her AAS uniform, hanging over the rail of the raised area to his left.
‘Quiet, miss!’ snapped the clerk of the court, giving her a sharp look.
Jo ignored him.
‘He wasn’t there, Your Worship, I swear he wasn’t,’ she continued, her voice amplified by the domed arch above and the absolute hush. ‘Because he was with me that night.’
‘You dog,’ laughed Reggie.
Tommy shot his brother a ferocious look.
There was a gasp in the gallery as the locals squashed alongside Jo started whispering behind their hands.
‘Silence!’ yelled the magistrate. ‘Or I will clear the court.’
&
nbsp; ‘But it’s true.’ Jo crossed herself. ‘I’ll swear he was.’
Fixing his beady eyes on Jo, Sir Randolph’s mouth pulled into a tight line.
‘You, young lady,’ he jabbed his finger at her, ‘will have a chance to give any evidence you have when the defendants stand trial at the Old Bailey but until then if I hear another word from you, you’ll be facing thirty days in prison for contempt of court. Do you hear?’
Although Jo’s eyes flashed angrily at the man behind the bench, she pressed her lips together and gave a small nod.
With love brimming in her eyes she looked at Tommy and the space between them vanished.
His gaze ran over the softness of her cheek, the sparkle of her eyes and the full curve of her mouth so as to imbed the image of her into his brain to sustain him in the long months ahead.
‘Good,’ barked Sir Randolph, his brusque tone destroying the fragile moment. ‘Now if there’s nothing else. I commit—’
‘Actually, Your Worship,’ interrupted the inspector, ‘there is another matter which I have to bring to the attention of the court.’
‘And what is that, pray?’ asked the magistrate crossly.
‘We received new evidence last night which means the police are reluctantly withdrawing all charges against Mr Thomas Sweete.’ Inspector Tovey forced the words out between clenched teeth.
Sir Randolph’s considerable eyebrows rose.
‘Are you sure, Inspector? After all, you have both Sweete brothers in the dock on a capital charge,’ he said, sounding quite buoyed up at the prospect of seeing the two men swing.
‘I am, sir.’ Inspector Tovey shot Tommy a mocking look. ‘And believe me, I wouldn’t unless I had to but Mr Fredrick Paul Willis, who participated in the events that night, has given a written statement and will testify under oath that Tommy Sweete was not with his brother at any time during that night nor had any knowledge of the silver that was found in his abode.’
Fear replaced bluster on Reggie’s face.
Jimmy leaned towards Tommy.
‘What’s he on about?’ he asked, under his breath.
‘Fred’s turned King’s evidence,’ Tommy replied, suppressing the urge to jump over the edge of the dock and do cartwheels around the court.
A Ration Book Christmas Page 30
