by Jenny Holmes
‘It’s to do with Phyllis Parr and her vice girls,’ Ruth explained as calmly and plainly as she could. ‘From what I can make out, Millicent is involved way out of her depth.’
‘No – Millicent wouldn’t …’ Norma’s sentence tailed off and she turned to Douglas in alarm.
‘I don’t know much more than that – only that “they”, meaning Mrs Parr and Vincent Poole, have tricked Millicent in some way and that’s what sent Cynthia frantic.’ Ruth directed the rest of her explanation towards Norma’s fiancé. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m glad you’re here. We need to get the police involved as soon as possible.’
‘Hold your horses – I’m off duty until Monday.’ Though intrigued by what Ruth was telling them, Douglas kept to the official line. ‘It’s probably best for you to go down to the station.’
‘No – Millicent Jones has got mixed up with a dangerous woman. I want you to step in before it’s too late.’
‘How dangerous?’ Norma suddenly remembered rumours surrounding Ruth’s married life in Manchester. ‘You came across Phyllis Parr before you moved here, didn’t you? What haven’t you told us about her?’
Ruth closed her eyes to give herself the time and courage to confront an uncomfortable truth. ‘I don’t like to talk about it,’ she admitted. ‘My husband as-was got mixed up with her. It wasn’t a happy time.’
This was news to Douglas. ‘So you can’t have been too pleased when she moved into the premises down the road on George Street?’
‘That’s putting it mildly. But I thought it would be best for me to keep quiet. I didn’t want people raking through my past – my divorce from Arthur Ridley, especially. Let sleeping dogs lie – that was my motto.’
‘But you’ve changed your mind?’
‘Yes, now that I know for certain Phyllis Parr is carrying on the way she always has.’ The weeds of the past had a way of pushing up through pavement cracks into the present, however hard Ruth tried to stamp on them. ‘She used to be in cahoots with a Dutch man called Van Buren before they locked him up.’
‘What for?’ Douglas asked.
‘For forcible detainment of the girls they used in their vice ring. He and Mrs Parr made a lot of money between them – a total of a hundred and ten pounds in one month alone, according to Arthur. And he knew the ins and outs of it, believe me.’
Douglas took this in without comment, though he glanced at Norma to see if she was giving him a told-you-so look.
‘In any case, somehow Phyllis Parr managed to get off without a prison sentence,’ Ruth went on. ‘Then she high-tailed it over here and teamed up with Sidney Hall.’
Norma saw how painful this must be for Ruth. ‘What’s it called when someone makes money like that?’ she asked Douglas in an undertone.
‘Procurement. It comes under the old Vagrancy Act, but it needs a witness to stand up in court and swear that’s what happens. The girls don’t want to do it for obvious reasons, neither do the married men who visit these brothels, and nor do their wives, for that matter.’
‘That was true in my case,’ Ruth admitted as she put her hand up to her flushed cheek. ‘I felt too ashamed.’
‘So these so-called madams usually get away with it.’ As Douglas had tried to explain to Norma before, the crime was notoriously hard to bring before a judge, but if Ruth proved willing to come forward, he thought there was a good chance in this case. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Go down to George Street and arrest Phyllis Parr,’ Ruth told him, her eyes flashing with renewed determination. ‘Do it now, before Millicent rushes into something she’ll regret for the rest of her life.’
Ivy opened the door to number 7 for a second time that afternoon. ‘Yes?’ she asked Cynthia, who stood with scared-rabbit eyes, shoulders raised and clutching her handbag close to her chest.
‘Norma – is she in?’
‘You must be Cynthia Ambler.’ Ivy recognized her immediately from Norma’s descriptions – golden haired, pure and pretty as a picture. ‘No, Norma isn’t back yet. I’m expecting her any time. Can I give her a message?’
‘No. I need to speak to her. Do you know where she is?’
‘For heaven’s sake.’ Ethel sailed up behind Ivy in fine grumbling fettle. ‘Why is our Norma in such high demand all of a sudden?’
Minutes were ticking by and Cynthia was getting nowhere. ‘Are you sure you don’t know where I can find her?’
‘You heard what Ivy said,’ Ethel said impatiently. ‘She’s not in. Now scram.’
‘No – wait.’ Ivy stepped in to prevent Ethel shutting the door in Cynthia’s face. From the girl’s expression she saw that the situation was urgent. ‘Try the Green Cross,’ she suggested. ‘Norma’s out and about with Douglas. They sometimes call in there on a Saturday afternoon.’
‘Ta, I’ll take a look.’ Cynthia was off down the street before the words were out of Ivy’s mouth. It was five past three – hardly enough time to find Norma and haul her back to Heaton Yard before Millicent was due to leave the house. Even then – even if they made it back in time – Cynthia wasn’t sure that Norma would be able to talk Millicent out of going off with Vincent Poole. But it’s my only hope, she thought as she squeezed past Dusty Miller and Walter Blackburn who lounged at the entrance to the pub. As she scanned the crowded room, she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Wilf looking quizzically at her.
‘Cynthia – what’s up? Are you all right?’
She grasped his hand. ‘No, Wilf – I’m not.’ The reason why she was here tumbled from her. ‘So you see I have to find Norma. Can you help me?’
He nodded quickly then led the way past darts and dominoes players to the bar.
‘I’m looking for Norma Haig,’ Cynthia told Chalky White above the hubbub. ‘Is she around?’
‘Not any more,’ he replied, looking from Cynthia to Wilf then back again as he steadily wiped the top of the bar.
‘You’re sure?’ She hoped against hope that the barman was wrong.
Chalky nodded apologetically. It was a shame to see disappointment flood Cynthia’s lovely features but it couldn’t be helped. ‘Sorry, love – your friend was here with her fiancé, large as life. You’ve missed them by a few minutes at most.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Millicent stood by the window watching out for Vincent Poole and working through the events that were about to unfold.
He would arrive and she would act coolly, as if being driven to meet a customer was an everyday thing for her. She could even imply that it wasn’t her first time, that this was something she did whenever she was finding it hard to make ends meet. In this way she would settle any doubts that Poole and Phyllis Parr might have harboured.
Then she and Poole would get into his taxi and they would continue to chat. She would speak admiringly of how cleverly Mrs Parr managed her undercover business behind the salon’s respectable front. And wasn’t it a credit to her that Barbara and Margaret had both stuck with her during recent times. She would find ways to praise him, too – how lucky it was that Phyllis Parr had him to call on at any time of day or night. He was a man who could be trusted not to give anything away.
In her experience of men in general and of Harold in particular, Millicent had grown convinced that they all succumbed to flattery in the end. Poole would be no exception. She would pin her hopes on gaining his trust during the taxi ride. Hopefully he would let things slip – small details at first then more significant ones, such as the names of customers, the recruitment of the girls, maybe even the problems that Sidney Hall had experienced with Clare Bell in the days leading up to his death.
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece – only five minutes to go. The yard was unusually empty of activity this sunny Saturday afternoon. Walter wasn’t on his doorstep – he must have gone down to the Green Cross for a pint. There were no children playing football or hopscotch, no women gossiping from their top steps.
Poole took her by surprise by a
rriving three minutes early. He paused at the end of the ginnel to light a cigarette, taking his time before setting off in the direction of Millicent’s house. His double-breasted jacket was buttoned, the shoulders wide and padded, the waist nipped in. He wore a stiff collar and dark blue tie that looked oddly formal alongside his workman’s cap.
Don’t rush out to meet him, don’t look as if you’ve been on tenterhooks. Millicent forced herself to wait for the knock on the door.
He didn’t speak when she opened it and didn’t step inside.
She put on her white jacket and picked up her handbag, went out and locked her door. They walked together across the cobbles.
‘Ta very much. This is a real lifesaver,’ she said breathlessly, getting into the taxi that stood waiting at the end of the alley. ‘Without this offer of work I’d have had to tighten my belt and miss out on the good things in life.’
Poole looked straight ahead and didn’t comment.
‘Am I glad I had those chats with you and Mrs Parr. Now there’s a woman who has her head screwed on.’
They came to a slow flow of traffic on Ghyll Road. He took a side road from there down on to Canal Road.
No need to worry after all, Millicent thought. Cynthia was wrong – we’re heading into town as planned. ‘I take it we’re meeting a regular customer?’ she mentioned to Poole.
There was no reaction, no comment. He finished his cigarette then wound down his window to throw the glowing butt into the gutter. She noticed that he was wearing leather gloves for driving and that his flattened nose gave him a boyish profile though his real age must have been close to forty. The gloves bothered her for some reason, as did his impenetrable silence. It sank in gradually that her plan was coming unstuck.
He drove slowly past familiar landmarks – the picture palace and the swimming baths on the left-hand side of the road, the police station and the scrap metal yard on the right.
‘What happens when you drop me off at the King’s Head?’ She thought up questions that would force an answer from him. ‘Do you come in with me or do I go in by myself?’
He glanced sideways, his expression unreadable as he went on refusing to speak.
Her uneasiness grew. ‘I hear you’re an old hand at this – that’s the reason why I want to run through the routine with you.’
He shrugged and carried on driving until they ground to a halt in traffic outside the Odeon in the town centre. It forced Poole to take another back route down the side of Merton and Groves department store until they came up against a second jam at the end of George Street. Once more Millicent drew comfort from the fact that the King’s Head was still their likely destination – this in spite of the fact that she’d failed to get a single word out of him.
Poole’s right hand tapped the steering wheel – the only sign of impatience. He checked the traffic in each direction. Two buses pulled away from the stop outside the exchange building, leaving a clear view of the row of shops next to it. She saw that a police car was parked outside Sam Bower’s barber’s shop.
Hemmed in by cars and motorbikes, trams and horses and carts, Poole also noticed the police car and suddenly gripped the steering wheel. A boy rode his bike on to the kerb to squeeze past the police constable standing beside the car, weaving between curious bystanders.
Time slowed. Millicent looked from Poole’s gloved hands on the steering wheel to his expressionless face and from there she followed the direction of his gaze. She spotted two more policemen leading Margaret and Barbara out of Sylvia’s Salon, straight into their waiting car.
‘Wait!’ She gave a strangled cry as Poole swore and swerved out of the line of traffic down a side street behind Marks & Spencer. ‘What are the police doing there?’
Tyres squealed and the taxi rocked violently as Poole put his foot on the accelerator and took the corner at speed. As he spun the wheel in the opposite direction, they lurched again, narrowly missing a row of bins before turning into a courtyard behind the Spiritualist church where Poole finally slammed on the brakes and stopped.
‘Get out,’ he yelled at Millicent, jumping out of the car and running round the back to wrench open her door before she had time to come to her senses. He dragged her out of the taxi into the shaded yard, surrounded on three sides by high walls topped with shards of glass set into concrete. Then he held her arm with an iron grip and forced her back on to the street.
She struggled. ‘Let go of me. Where are we going? I said, let go!’
‘Shut your mouth. Walk if you know what’s good for you.’ He propelled her across the pavement towards the cenotaph, his face set in cruelly determined lines.
Surprised by his strength, Millicent tried but failed to pull away. They were attracting attention – people glanced in their direction but didn’t step in to break up what must have looked to them like a lovers’ tiff. He forced her to walk on past the taxi rank and across George Street towards the hairdresser’s.
‘Stop. This wasn’t my doing!’
Poole ignored her. He was fuelled by an explosive fury as he kept tight hold of her and leaned his shoulder against the door. When it refused to open, he took a step back, raised his foot and kicked hard at the lock, which broke and the door swung open. Millicent fell on to her knees as he thrust her inside.
The salon was empty now. There was no sign of the police and so Poole’s risky decision to come here in search of Phyllis Parr had paid off. However, there was no sign of her either. Poole came alongside Millicent, who was still on her knees on the floor. With his face devoid of human feeling, he took aim then landed a vicious kick in her ribs.
She collapsed forward, gasping for breath but too shocked to feel pain.
‘What did you tell them?’ Now his teeth were bared and his fists clenched.
She clutched her ribs and rolled sideways. ‘Nothing. It wasn’t me.’
‘Liar!’ His second kick failed to meet its target so he lunged and pushed her on to her back. Then he knelt astride her and took hold of her by the shoulders. ‘Liar. Bitch. Liar, liar!’ The words burst from him, each one accompanied by a savage slam of her body against the floor.
Her breath came in short gasps. She managed to resist by bringing her knees up and arching her back so that she threw him off balance. There was a split second when he was thrown backwards, allowing her to roll free, but not enough time for her to stand up and make for the door. He was up before her, grabbing her wrist with both hands and dragging her dead weight towards the stairs at the back of the shop.
‘Listen to me,’ Millicent pleaded as her body slammed against the bottom steps. ‘I had nothing to do with this!’
Poole raised her to her feet then shoved from behind, forcing her up the narrow staircase and blocking her attempts to escape. When they reached the landing he pressed her against the wall, one hand squeezing her throat.
‘Tut-tut – bad idea,’ he chastized as he applied more pressure. ‘Phoning the police – very bad. Stupid.’ Anger burned in his eyes.
‘It wasn’t me.’ The murderous look scared her more than the physical violence – so much so that she went limp and would have sagged to the floor if Poole hadn’t taken her weight and dragged her along the landing towards Clare’s room.
‘Let’s take a look in here,’ he suggested as he kicked open the door. He held her against him, an arm hooked around her throat. ‘No – no one here. I might have known Phyllis wouldn’t hang around long enough to get herself arrested.’
It was now that Millicent felt pain shoot through her bruised ribs and shoulders. She was locked in his grip and her throat throbbed as she fought for breath. She had no strength to resist being flung against the washstand in the far corner of the room where she dropped to the floor.
Watching from the doorway, Poole took off his right glove then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to draw out a small metal object with a row of four rings through which he slowly slid his fingers. ‘It serves me right for getting mixed up with a bunch o
f women in the first place.’
Millicent pulled herself upright, her eyes fixed on the brass knuckles. She shook her head then pressed herself hard against the wall.
‘What are the chances of Margaret and Barbara keeping their traps shut, eh?’ He flexed his fingers inside the rings and tilted his head to one side as if working out the odds. ‘You’re right – pretty slim. Meanwhile, the lady in charge makes her getaway, leaving me to clear up the mess.’
Millicent drew a ragged breath and clutched at her ribs.
‘Not so chatty now, are we?’ He held up his fists as he moved one step towards her. ‘Just so you know – we were on to you, so it was a waste of time getting dressed up.’
Millicent shook her head. She felt sick and was shaking all over, but still she hoped to talk her way out. ‘You’re wrong. I didn’t call the police. Why would I?’
‘Because you and your pals have been poking your noses in for a while now – that’s why.’ He feinted then ducked and stepped sideways – a boxer’s sequence of moves. ‘I warned Phyllis from the start – I don’t like the look of the tall one with dark hair.’
‘Yes and I listened to your advice, didn’t I?’ Phyllis Parr’s voice rang out as she came up the stairs then trod quietly along the landing into the room.
Millicent gasped and took a step towards her in mute appeal until Poole aimed an uppercut at her chin and forced her to retreat. His fist missed her by an inch.
Phyllis took in the situation. ‘You were right, Vincent. It’s a good thing we kept our wits about us. But you’re wrong in one respect. It wasn’t Millicent who listened in to our conversation and called the police.’
‘How do you know?’ With his gaze fixed on Millicent, Poole moved within arm’s length, fists raised, the brass knuckles glinting in the low sunlight.
‘She’s been suspended from work, remember?’
He jabbed at Millicent and feinted again. ‘So what?’
‘So there will be others from the exchange to deal with once you’ve finished here.’
