‘’Alf a mo!’ Ron said as they reached the door. ‘I got something you’ll like.’
He produced the brooch.
Sally was delighted. This was no cheap store piece. It was slap-up dress jewellery, like the things you saw in the West End, in Bond Street, in the Burlington Arcade, even. She told him she’d wear it just below her left shoulder near the neck edge of her dress. When they moved on to the dance floor she was holding her head higher and swinging her hips more than ever before. She and Ron danced well together. That night many couples stood still to watch them.
About an hour later the dancing came to a sudden end with a sound of breaking glass and shouting that grew in volume and ferocity.
‘Raid!’ yelled the boys on the dance floor, deserting their partners and crowding to the door. ‘Those bloody Wingers again.’
The sounds of battle led them, running swiftly, to the table tennis and billiards room, where a shambles confronted them. Overturned tables, ripped cloth, broken glass were everywhere. Tall youths and younger lads were fighting indiscriminately. Above the din the club warden and the three voluntary workers, two of them women, raised their voices in appeal and admonishment, equally ignored. The young barrister who attended once a week to give legal advice free, as a form of social service, to those who asked for it plunged into the battle, only to be flung out again nursing a twisted arm. It was the club caretaker, old and experienced in gang warfare, who summoned the police. They arrived silently, snatched ringleaders with expert knowledge or recognition, hemmed in their captives while the battle melted, and waited while their colleagues, posted at the doors of the club, turned back all would-be escapers.
Before long, complete order was restored. In the dance hall the line of prisoners stood below the platform where the band had played. They included club members as well as strangers. The rest, cowed, bunched together near the door, also included a few strangers. Murmurings against these soon added them to the row of captives.
‘Now,’ said the sergeant, who had arrived in answer to the call, ‘Mr. Smith will tell me who belongs here and who doesn’t.’
The goats were quickly separated from the rather black sheep.
‘Next, who was playing table tennis when the raid commenced?’
Six hands shot up from the line. Some dishevelled girls near the door also held up their hands.
‘The rest were in here dancing,’ the warden said. ‘The boys left the girls when they heard the row, I think.’
‘That’s right,’ Ron said boldly. ‘We ’eard glass going, and we guessed it was them buggers. They been ’ere before.’
‘They don’t learn,’ said the sergeant with a baleful glance at the goats, who shuffled their feet and looked sulky.
‘You’ll be charged at the station,’ the sergeant went on, ‘and I’ll want statements from some of your lads,’ he told the warden. ‘Also from you and your assistants. These other kids can all go home. Quietly, mind,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Show us there’s some of you can behave like reasonable adults and not childish savages.’
Sally ran forward to Ron as he left the row under the platform. He took her hand as they walked towards the door. But the sergeant had seen something that surprised him. He made a signal over their heads. At the door they were stopped.
‘I think you’re wanted. Stand aside for a minute,’ the constable told them.
The sergeant was the one who had been at the flat in the first part of the Fairlands case. He had been there when a second detailed examination of the flat was made in case the missing jewellery had been hidden away and had therefore escaped the thief. He had formed a very clear picture in his mind of what he was looking for from Mrs. Evans’s description. As Sally passed him on her way to the door with Ron, part of the picture presented itself to his astonished eyes.
He turned to the warden.
‘That pair. Can I have a word with them somewhere private?’
‘Who? Ron Sharp and Sally Biggs? Two of our very nicest—’
The two were within earshot. They exchanged a look of amusement instantly damped by the sergeant, who ordered them briefly to follow him. In the warden’s office, with the door shut, he said to Sally, ‘Where did you get that brooch you’re wearing?’
The girl flushed. Ron said angrily, ‘I give it ’er. So what?’
‘So where did you come by it?’
Ron hesitated. He didn’t want to let himself down in Sally’s eyes. He wanted her to think he’d bought it specially for her. He said, aggressively, ‘That’s my business.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Turning to Sally, the sergeant said, ‘Would you mind letting me have a look at it, miss?’
The girl was becoming frightened. Surely Ron hadn’t done anything silly? He was looking upset. Perhaps—
‘All right,’ she said, undoing the brooch and handing it over. ‘Poor eyesight, I suppose.’
It was feeble defiance, and the sergeant ignored it. He said, ‘I’ll have to ask you two to come down to the station. I’m not an expert, but we shall have to know a great deal more about this article, and Inspector Brooks will be particularly interested to know where it came from.’
Ron remaining obstinately silent in spite of Sally’s entreaty, the two found themselves presently sitting opposite Inspector Brooks, with the brooch lying on a piece of white paper before them.
‘This brooch,’ said the inspector sternly, ‘is one piece of jewellery listed as missing from the flat of a Mrs. Fairlands, who was robbed and murdered on Christmas Eve or early Christmas Day.’
‘Never!’ whispered Sally, aghast.
Ron said nothing. He was not a stupid boy, and he realized at once that he must now speak, whatever Sally thought of him. Also that he had a good case if he didn’t say too much. So, after careful thought, he told Brooks exactly how and when he had come by the brooch and advised him to check this with his father and mother. The old lady’s son had stuck the tree out by the dustbins, his mother had said, and her daughter had told his father he could have it to take home.
Inspector Brooks found the tale too fantastic to be untrue. Taking the brooch and the two subdued youngsters with him, he went to Ron’s home, where more surprises awaited him. After listening to Mr. Sharp’s account of the Christmas tree, which exactly tallied with Ron’s, he went into the next room where the younger children were playing and Mrs. Sharp was placidly watching television.
‘Which of you two found the brooch?’ Brooks asked. The little girl was persuaded to agree that she had done so.
‘But I got these,’ the boy said. He dived into his pocket and dragged out the pearl necklace and the diamond bracelet.
‘’Struth!’ said the inspector, overcome. ‘She must’ve been balmy.’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ Sally broke in. ‘She was nice. She give us two and a tanner.’
‘She what?’
Sally explained the carol singing expedition. They had been up four roads in that part, she said, and only two nicker the lot.
‘Mostly it was nil,’ she said. ‘Then there was some give a bob and this old gentleman and the woman with ’im ten bob each. We packed it in after that.’
‘This means you actually went to Mrs. Fairlands’s house?’ Brooks said sternly to Ron.
‘With the others—yes.’
‘Did you go inside?’
‘No.’
‘No.’ Sally supported him. ‘She come out.’
‘Was she wearing the brooch?’
‘No,’ said Ron.
‘Not when she come out, she wasn’t,’ Sally corrected him.
Ron kicked her ankle gently. The inspector noticed this.
‘When did you see it?’ he asked Sally.
‘When she looked through the window at us. We shone the torch on ’er. It didn’t ’alf shine.’
‘But you
didn’t recognize it when Ron gave it to you?’
‘Why should I? I never saw it close. It was pinned on ’er dress at the neck. I didn’t think of it till you said.’
Brooks nodded. This seemed fair enough. He turned to face Ron.
‘So you went back alone later to get it? Right?’
‘I never! It’s a damned lie!’ the boy cried fiercely.
Mr. Sharp took a step forward. His wife bundled the younger children out of the room. Sally began to cry.
‘’Oo are you accusing?’ Mr. Sharp said heavily. ‘You ’eard ’ow I come by the tree. My mates was there. The things was on it. I got witnesses. If Ron did that job, would ’e leave the only things worth ’aving? It says in the paper nothing of value, don’t it?’
Brooks realized the force of this argument, however badly put. He’d been carried away a little. Unusual for him; he was surprised at himself. But the murder had been a particularly revolting one, and until these jewels turned up, he’d had no idea where to look. Carol singers. It might be a line and then again it mightn’t.
He took careful statements from Ron, Sally, Ron’s father, and the two younger children. He took the other pieces of jewellery and the Christmas tree. Carol singers. Mrs. Fairlands had opened the door to Ron’s lot, having taken off her brooch if the story was true. Having hidden it very cleverly. He and his men had missed it completely. A Christmas tree decorated with flashy bits and pieces as usual. Standing back against a wall. They’d ignored it. Seen nothing but tinsel and glitter for weeks past. Of course they hadn’t noticed it. The real thief or thieves hadn’t noticed it, either.
Back at the station he locked away the jewels, labelled, in the safe and rang up Hugh Evans. He did not tell him where the pieces had been found.
Afterwards he had to deal with some of the hooligans who had now been charged with breaking, entering, wilful damage, and making an affray. He wished he could pin Mrs. Fairlands’s murder on their ringleader, a most degenerate and evil youth. Unfortunately, the whole gang had been in trouble in the West End that night; most of them had spent what remained of it in Bow Street police station. So they were out. But routine investigations now had a definite aim. To collect a list of all those who had sung carols at the houses on Mrs. Fairlands’s road on Christmas Eve, to question the singers about the times they had appeared there and about the houses they had visited.
It was not easy. Carol singers came from many social groups and often travelled far from their own homes. The youth clubs in the district were helpful; so were the various student bodies and hostels in the neighbourhood. Brooks’s manor was wide and very variously populated. In four days he had made no headway at all.
A radio message went out, appealing to carol singers to report at the police station if they were near Mrs. Fairlands’s house at any time on Christmas Eve. The press took up the quest, dwelling on the pathetic aspects of the old woman’s tragic death at a time of traditional peace on earth and goodwill towards men. All right-minded citizens must want to help the law over this revolting crime.
But the citizens maintained their attitude of apathy or caution.
Except for one, a freelance journalist, Tom Meadows, who had an easy manner with young people because he liked them. He became interested because the case seemed to involve young people. It was just up his street. So he went first to the Sharp family, gained their complete confidence, and had a long talk with Ron.
The boy was willing to help. After he had got over his indignation with the law for daring to suspect him, he had had sense enough to see how this had been inevitable. His anger was directed more truly at the unknown thugs responsible. He remembered Mrs. Fairlands with respect and pity. He was ready to do anything Tom Meadows suggested.
The journalist was convinced that the criminal or criminals must be local, with local knowledge. It was unlikely they would wander from house to house, taking a chance on finding one that might be profitable. It was far more likely that they knew already that Mrs. Fairlands lived alone, would be quite alone over Christmas and therefore defenceless. But their information had been incomplete. They had not known how little money she kept at the flat. No one had known this except her family. Or had they?
Meadows, patient and amiable, worked his way from the Sharps to the postman, the milkman, and through the latter to the daily.
‘Well, of course I mentioned ’er being alone for the ’oliday. I told that detective so. In the way of conversation, I told ’im. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Why indeed? But who did you tell, exactly?’
‘I disremember. Anyone, I suppose. If we was comparing. I’m on me own now meself, but I go up to me brother’s at the ’olidays.’
‘Where would that be?’
‘Notting ’Ill way. ’E’s on the railway. Paddington.’
Bit by bit Meadows extracted a list of her friends and relations, those with whom she had talked most often during the week before Christmas. Among her various nephews and nieces was a girl who went to the same comprehensive school as Ron and his girlfriend Sally.
Ron listened to the assignment Meadows gave him.
‘Sally won’t like it,’ he said candidly.
‘Bring her into it, then. Pretend it’s all your own idea.’
Ron grinned.
‘Shirl won’t like that,’ he said.
Tom Meadows laughed.
‘Fix it any way you like,’ he said. ‘But I think this girl Shirley was with a group and did go to sing carols for Mrs. Fairlands. I know she isn’t on the official list, so she hasn’t reported it. I want to know why.’
‘I’m not shopping anymore,’ Ron said warily.
‘I’m not asking you to. I don’t imagine Shirley or her friends did Mrs. Fairlands. But it’s just possible she knows or saw something and is afraid to speak up for fear of reprisals.’
‘Cor!’ said Ron. It was like a page of his favourite magazine working out in real life. He confided in Sally, and they went to work.
The upshot was interesting. Shirley did have something to say, and she said it to Tom Meadows in her own home with her disapproving mother sitting beside her.
‘I never did like the idea of Shirl going out after dark, begging at house doors. That’s all it really is, isn’t it? My children have very good pocket money. They’ve nothing to complain of.’
‘I’m sure they haven’t,’ Meadows said mildly. ‘But there’s a lot more to carol singing than asking for money. Isn’t there, Shirley?’
‘I’ll say,’ the girl answered. ‘Mum don’t understand.’
‘You can’t stop her,’ the mother complained. ‘Self-willed. Stubborn. I don’t know, I’m sure. Out after dark. My dad’d’ve taken his belt to me for less.’
‘There were four of us,’ Shirley protested. ‘It wasn’t late. Not above seven or eight.’
The time was right, Meadows noted, if she was speaking of her visit to Mrs. Fairlands’s road. She was. Encouraged to describe everything, she agreed that her group was working towards the house especially to entertain the old lady who was going to be alone for Christmas. She’d got that from her aunt, who worked for Mrs. Fairlands. They began at the far end of the road on the same side as the old lady. When they were about six houses away, they saw another group go up to it or to one near it. Then they were singing themselves. The next time she looked round, she saw one child running away up the road. She did not know where he had come from. She did not see the others.
‘You did not see them go on?’
‘No. They weren’t in the road then, but they might have gone right on while we were singing. There’s a turning off, isn’t there?’
‘Yes. Go on.’
‘Well, we went up to Mrs. Fairlands’s and rang the bell. I thought I’d tell her she knew my aunt and we’d come special.’
‘Yes. What happened?’
‘Nothin
g. At least—’
‘Go on. Don’t be frightened.’
Shirley’s face had gone very pale.
‘There were men’s voices inside. Arguing like. Nasty. We scarpered.’
Tom Meadows nodded gravely.
‘That would be upsetting. Men’s voices? Or big boys?’
‘Could be either, couldn’t it? Well, perhaps more like sixth form boys, at that.’
‘You thought it was boys, didn’t you? Boys from your school.’
Shirley was silent.
‘You thought they’d know and have it in for you if you told. Didn’t you? I won’t let you down, Shirley. Didn’t you?’
She whispered, ‘Yes,’ and added, ‘Some of our boys got knives. I seen them.’
Meadows went to Inspector Brooks. He explained how Ron had helped him to get in touch with Shirley and the result of that interview. The inspector, who had worked as a routine matter on all Mrs. Fairlands’s contacts with the outer world, was too interested to feel annoyed at the other’s success.
‘Men’s voices?’ Brooks said incredulously.
‘Most probably older lads,’ Meadows answered. ‘She agreed that was what frightened her group. They might have looked out and recognized them as they ran away.’
‘There’d been no attempt at intimidations?’
‘They’re not all that stupid.’
‘No.’
Brooks considered.
‘This mustn’t break in the papers yet, you understand?’
‘Perfectly. But I shall stay around.’
Inspector Brooks nodded, and Tom went away. Brooks took his sergeant and drove to Mrs. Fairlands’s house. They still had the key of the flat, and they still had the house under observation.
The new information was disturbing, Brooks felt. Men’s voices, raised in anger. Against poor Mrs. Fairlands, of course. But there were no adult fingerprints in the flat except those of the old lady herself and of her daily. Gloves had been worn, then. A professional job. But no signs whatever of breaking and entering. Therefore, Mrs. Fairlands had let them in. Why? She had peeped out at Ron’s lot, to check who they were, obviously. She had not done so for Shirley’s. Because she was in the power of the ‘men’ whose voices had driven this other group away in terror.
Crimson Snow Page 28
