by Colin Murray
‘Spare a couple of bob for an old soldier, sir?’ the alkie suddenly said.
I reached into my pocket and found half a crown. I dropped it into his hand.
‘Thank you, sir, that’s very kind,’ he said and touched his right hand to his forehead in the sort of salute that would have had him on a charge in any unit I’d served in.
He drifted off, looking as if a gust of wind would catch him up and carry him gently across the road.
I felt slightly depressed again but still wary. That niggling feeling nagged at the back of the neck. It was probably nothing. Probably just residual anxiety.
But Big Luc had once told me that one should always follow one’s instincts and that if you thought you were being followed, act as if you were. Better to feel a little foolish afterwards because there had been no one, than to be dead. An image of the big man sitting quietly with his back to an apple tree, sipping Calvados from his battered tin flask, his prized Luger next to him on the damp grass, flittered into my mind. I wondered if he was still alive.
My alcoholic ex-soldier had disappeared around the corner into Old Compton Street. I hoped he spent my half crown sensibly. Somehow, I couldn’t see him wasting it on fish and chips.
There was a little light rain in the air, and a few shapeless, dowdy women of a certain age in cardigans and headscarves took pakamacs out of shopping baskets and wrestled their way into them before rolling off to the baker or the butcher or the greengrocer.
I sauntered casually along and, following the old soldier, turned into Old Compton Street, then I moved as quickly as I could until I came to the entrance to a drinking club I knew and stepped inside. The club itself was on the first floor, and I didn’t venture up the stairs. I stood in the little corridor, pressed up against the clammy wall, and waited, smelling the musty, damp odour of a sick and crumbling building, listening to the creaks and groans. Occasionally, the pleasing smell of warm, fresh, yeasty bread wafted in from the baker who had the shop on the ground floor.
A couple of roly-poly women bowled past the narrow doorway, and then I heard the heavy footsteps of a large man hurrying.
He lumbered past, half running and half limping, and I stepped out of the dark, dank corridor and into the street.
I was in no condition for any kind of physical confrontation, but I had no intention of spending even a small part of my life in hiding. It could so easily become a habit.
‘Are you looking for me?’ I called. As he stopped and turned, I held the carrier bag in front of me. ‘And this?’
Malcolm Booth bent over, his hands on his thighs, sucking in air in quick little gulps. I was happy to see that he was in no state to offer violence. After a few seconds he straightened up and coughed. ‘You, yeah. That, no,’ he wheezed out. ‘I wanted a word.’
‘I’m all ears,’ I said.
An old woman came out of the baker’s, a loaf of bread poking out of her shopping basket. She looked at us warily with rheumy eyes and then put her head down and trudged stoically past.
‘Let’s walk and talk,’ Malcolm said.
I nodded and turned back along Old Compton Street. He fell into step beside me, and we ambled along, the light rain drifting into our faces, tiny little drops sliding from his slick, Brylcreemed hair.
‘The other night,’ he said. ‘A couple of things ain’t right. I don’t think that joanna player did for those boys. And I know you think I had something to do with it, but I didn’t.’
He gave me a quick little look, but I said nothing.
‘The thing is, Mr Fitz set it up to warn that Ricky off. He told the black boys what was what, time of the rounds and that. But Mr Fitz didn’t want things to get out of hand, so he asked me and a couple of the boys to walk past, like, make sure they was just warned.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, we ran a few minutes late and it was all over by the time we got there. The boys was stabbed. In the back, both of them. The knife was still sticking out of Billy. But that Yank wasn’t up for that. He was huddled up at the other end of the alley, hugging his knees, just rocking backwards and forwards.’
‘So,’ I said, ‘what do you think happened?’
‘Well, at first we thought it must have been the black boys, you know. And we didn’t think that Mr Fitz would want them done for it, so Stan, he pulls the blade out of young Billy and he gives it to the joanna player. And we shove off.’
We walked in silence for a little while.
‘I didn’t think about it at the time,’ he said, ‘but there was a woman we ran into just before we got there.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘she saw you too.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘you know about her then?’
I nodded.
‘Right then,’ he said and stopped. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ As he turned to go, he added, ‘Watch your step with the boys in the Frighted Horse. Give them the stuff and get out. I wouldn’t hang about.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I won’t.’ I cleared my throat. ‘About the ankle. I’m sorry, but you know . . .’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. He looked down at it and moved his foot a little gingerly. ‘S’not busted. Painful, though. I wouldn’t have fancied facing you at Highbury in me playing days.’ He raised a hand in farewell and then, exaggerating his limp, he walked away.
I didn’t quite know what to make of that. Why follow me to tell me something I already knew? After all, he’d taken me to Viv’s gaff. Either he wasn’t such a bad bloke or else he had something he was covering up. I’d suspected the latter before. Now I was just plain puzzled.
I shrugged and shoved my way through the door of the Frighted Horse.
It was the usual scene of genial hospitality.
Two tables were occupied by crumpled-looking middle-aged men, who looked at me suspiciously. Well, the demob suit was decidedly dodgy. My old soldier was standing at the bar. The glass of whisky in his hand and the half pint of beer standing on the deeply scarred wooden counter in front of him, waiting to chase the whisky down his gullet, suggested he’d decided on a well-balanced meal. He offered me another of his shabby salutes. Maybe he thought I was good for another half crown.
I nodded to him and then made my way over to Nelson Smith, Clive and their mate, who were drinking glasses of rum in the corner. Nelson looked up at me and the mean little expression on his face suggested that perhaps he wasn’t his usual sunny self.
‘What you want, man?’ he said. ‘We ain’t in a good mood wit’ you.’
‘Peace offering,’ I said and put the carrier bag on the table. ‘From Mr Fitz.’
They all looked at each other, and Nelson prodded Clive. He stood up, leaned across the table and peered into the bag suspiciously.
‘What’s in there, man?’ he said.
‘Like I said, a peace offering. Nothing too flammable. I promise.’
I backed away as Clive took one of the little packets I’d carefully packed into the bag, opened it, sniffed it and nodded approvingly to Nelson.
‘Whoa. Where you goin’?’ Nelson said to me before I’d gone a few feet.
‘I got things to do,’ I said.
‘You don’ wan’ a drink?’
‘No, I’m just the errand boy,’ I said. ‘Got other errands.’
He nodded. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘just bein’ friendly here.’
‘I appreciate that,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got to go.’
Clive took the bag off the table and tucked it down by his feet.
They made no attempt to stop me, so I left.
I was back on Frith Street and well away when three things struck me:
First, maybe I’d misjudged Malcolm. He had done me a real favour. The two police cars that passed me going towards the pub suggested that James Fitzgerald was even more unscrupulous than even I’d suspected and would have had no qualms about seeing me arrested along with Nelson and his mates.
Second, I was getting very wet.
And third, of course, I’d been very, very stu
pid.
The Central Line train I sat in all the way from Tottenham Court Road to Leyton whiffed even worse than usual. The filthy floor, littered with cigarette butts and spent matches as usual, was wet from dripping umbrellas and raincoats so the fag ends were soggy and little shreds of brown and gold tobacco wormed their way into every crevice. The smell of damp wool added to the smoky miasma, but I suspected that much of that was coming from my antique suit.
I stared at my reflection in the grimy window opposite as we screeched our way under Holborn and Chancery Lane and brooded a little.
I’d learned in the war not to underestimate women.
Ghislaine, in her beret and Robert’s big, worn leather jacket, had been as fierce as any of the men in our little group, as determined and every bit as brave. And there had been the tough, redoubtable and authentically dirty-minded factory girls, wearing trousers, their hair tied up in scarves.
All the same, I still found it difficult not to think of them as the gentler sex.
You opened doors for women, you walked on the side of the pavement nearest the road to protect them from splashes from passing cars, you raised your hat to women. You worked from half past eight until half past five to put bread on the table for the little woman.
Well, I didn’t. But then I didn’t wear a hat either.
The train clattered to the surface at Stratford in a rush of grey light. The bloke sitting next to me took out a pouch of Golden Virginia and a packet of Rizla and, with remarkable dexterity, quickly rolled a thin cigarette, spilling nothing in spite of the erratic motion of the train. He put away the makings, ran his tongue over the emaciated little tube and then tucked the roll-up neatly behind his ear.
A little cold fresh air blew in when the doors opened, and I shivered slightly. But at least it seemed to have stopped raining.
I yawned, stretched a bit and stood up when the train started again, grabbed one of the swinging straps above me and swayed along until we reached Leyton.
I’d made a decision. The damp, wrinkled suit had to go. I had a plan of action: fish and chips, cash a cheque at the Midland Bank and take a bus to the Bakers’ Alms. Half an hour in Foster Bros should see me right. A new suit and a crisp white shirt and I’d feel fine. Well, as fine as anyone with a few bumps on the head and a burnt hand could feel. The shoes were old but not too shabby. They’d do for the time being.
Of course, I knew what I was really doing. Just putting off a little chat. But I’d have to buy a new suit sometime. I felt more cheerful.
There was a spring in my step, and I bounced up the stairs at Leyton station. Even the headline in the Evening Standard about troops heading off to Cyprus that I noticed as I passed the vendor on my way out didn’t depress me.
Billie Holiday was singing ‘Good Morning Heartache’ when I clanged my way into the shop. (Jerry’s bell didn’t really ring.)
It was my day for peace offerings, and I handed Jerry the canary-yellow silk tie I’d bought him. But this peace offering was kosher. I didn’t think the police would come crashing in. Unless it was to arrest him for crimes against conventional taste.
I had a momentary pang when I thought about Nelson Smith and Clive, but, if I’m honest, it was more a worry that they might have mentioned me to the police than concern about them being banged up. It did also cross my mind, not for the first time, that they could well be thinking that I’d set them up, which was probably what Mr Fitz intended. Still, they had more pressing concerns than that just at the moment. All the same, it would fester. I could always hope they’d get long stretches.
Jerry claimed to love the tie, and Jeannie Summers came out from his living room to admire it. And me in my new charcoal-grey suit. She hummed along with Miss Holiday.
Les had called an hour or so before, and I rang him back. It seemed that there was nothing much that the quacks could do for Daphne. It was just a matter of time, and she’d asked if she could go home. She’d be there the next day, he said, and her sister would be staying again to look after her. There was a catch in his voice. She’d asked, apparently, if I could visit and, perhaps, bring someone. She’d said I’d know what she meant. I said I did and that I’d see what I could do. If Viv Laurence hadn’t pushed off and moved back to Soho, I wouldn’t have had to. I pondered that for a moment after I’d manoeuvred the receiver back on to its cradle
A couple of customers – a boy and a girl of about sixteen – came into the shop, and I took Miss Summers off to Costello’s for a cup of tea.
She was looking pale and tired but surprisingly elegant in one of Jerry’s grey shirts and her blue costume.
The tea Enzo poured for us was dark brown and stewed. I put a couple of spoonfuls of sugar in mine. She didn’t look at all interested in hers.
‘Mrs Dale’s Diary’ murmured gently from the big, brown wireless behind the counter, and I thought of Viv Laurence and smiled.
‘I wanted a quiet word,’ I said.
‘You’ve guessed, haven’t you?’ Miss Summers said.
‘I suppose so,’ I said.
‘I love him,’ she said simply.
‘And he loves you,’ I said.
She nodded. ‘I knew that you’d understand. The French understand l’amour,’ she said.
‘I’m not really French,’ I said. ‘My parents were, but I’m not.’ I paused and thought for a moment. ‘Why didn’t you take him with you, when you ran away?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ She waved her hands helplessly. ‘I was in a state. I just ran.’
I swallowed some tea.
‘They were going for him,’ she said in a flat monotone, like in the pictures when the broad finally confesses to the dogged flatfoot who’s been pursuing her relentlessly. ‘One of them had his cosh out.’
‘They were going for him?’ I said. ‘But they’d just been set on themselves.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘When I got there, they looked all right. Except they were mean and mad and they looked like they were going to take it out on him. I saw the knife on the ground. One of them must have dropped it, I suppose. Anyway, I used it on both of them and ran. It was only a matter of a few seconds. They didn’t yell or anything.’
I wondered if Viv Laurence had seen her. She must have done. Then why hadn’t she mentioned it? Some sense of loyalty to her sex perhaps. Or maybe Miss Summers had arrived at the alley just after Viv. It was possible.
‘Was there anyone else there?’
She looked puzzled.
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said, shaking her head.
I wasn’t sure I could face any more tea, but I had to do something to cover my silence, so I took another sip.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said.
‘Me?’ I said. ‘Nothing. What should I do?’
‘Tell the police.’
‘Why would they believe me? They’ve got a confession. You and Lee can sort this one out between you.’ Anyway, I had no intention of going anywhere near the good Inspector Rose if I could help it.
‘What’ll happen to him?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He might get away with manslaughter. But they were knifed in the back, weren’t they?’
‘You think they might hang him,’ she said.
I shrugged again. ‘Let’s hope not.’
She leaned across the table and put her hand on mine. Fortunately, it was my left hand. Her touch was soft and cool. It felt good. It also meant that I couldn’t lift the cup and so didn’t have to swallow any more of Enzo’s foul brew.
She looked thoughtful, but she still didn’t drink any tea. A scum was forming on the surface of her cup.
‘Do you think the judge might be more lenient with a woman?’ she said.
‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘They just hanged Ruth Ellis.’ A fleeting memory from my time at Church Road School came into sharp focus: Mrs Wilson’s white hair the only bright spot in the November-afternoon gloom of the
dusty classroom as she says to my mate, Bob, ‘No, no, no, Robert, meat is hung; men – and Dr Crippen was a man – are hanged.’
Jeannie Summers stared off into space for a few moments. ‘Did you mean what you said about finding some money for the lawyers?’ she said.
I nodded.
‘I’ll pay you back, of course. When I can,’ she said. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘There might be something,’ I said.
She squeezed my hand.
TWENTY-ONE
In the event, I didn’t have to go to Inspector Rose. He came to me.
It wasn’t, he said, an official visit. To prove it, he’d left the grumpy-looking Sergeant Radcliffe in the back of the comfortable old black Wolseley. At least, I assumed that was why he pointed it out to me as we stood on the pavement outside the shop. The fact that it was ten o’clock in the morning, rather than ten minutes before dawn, also went some way to confirming the friendly and informal nature of the call.
After tea in Costello’s, Jeannie Summers had made her way back to the boarding house close to Marble Arch where she still had a room. I’d slipped her a fiver to cover her immediate expenses. And that meant that I’d spent the night in my own bed and, in spite of the occasional nasty dream about fires, I’d slept quite well. I’d also washed, shaved, breakfasted on bacon and eggs and put on some fresh new clothes. I’d been ready for almost anything – even the inspector.
I invited him up to my office for a cup of tea.
He sat on my grandfather’s chair and fiddled with his pipe while I went to the scullery to boil the kettle.
‘That’s a nasty wound,’ he said, pointing the stem of his pipe at my right hand when I brought the coronation coach tray with teapot, milk bottle and cups on it and plonked it on the worn old table that masqueraded as my desk.
I’d decided to take the bandage off, and the back of the hand really did look raw and angry. It still hurt too.
