With great solemnity, two middle aged women stepped from the second of the limousines. A rather effete young man followed and joined them. The three paused, waiting self-consciously for the first car to disgorge its passengers. One of the women frowned and poked the young man into action, making him step up to open the first limousine's door. A stern faced woman of about fifty-five climbed out. She glared at the young man and edged him aside, deferring to her fellow passenger. It was an older, elegant woman wearing a veiled, black straw hat. She leaned on a silver topped, ebony cane with which she testily beat away all offers of help from her grave faced companion.
With the minimum of fuss and formality, the sad little group mustered behind the bier and followed it into the chapel's shadowy interior. Three more family groups arrived on foot; middle aged, middle class couples, each with a pair of young adults sporting either university scarves, or smart school uniforms. Billy did not recognize anyone; even the school uniforms were unknown to him.
However, he did recognize one of the last to arrive, Doctor Longden, the man who had chased him out of the Turkish baths. He and a fat, slovenly man arrived in a taxicab. The fat one exchanged angry whispers with the cabby before grudgingly paying him. As Billy watched them enter the chapel, he thought what an odd couple they made, Longden swinging a walking stick and marching to some imagined military band, his fat friend, slouching behind.
Two other men arrived. Both hung back in the rain watching from a distance. When the chapel doors closed behind the mourners, the pair moved in to the porch to shelter. Billy watched them light cigarettes and kick their heels, not speaking to each other. He guessed they were reporters. A few minutes later Harry Clegg arrived. He nodded to the smokers in the porch, removed his hat and went quietly into the chapel.
'Not many,' Billy said. 'You'd think there'd be more.'
'What about him?' Yvonne flicked a dark, wayward curl behind her ear and pointed to a small, balding man, wearing a navy blue three-piece suit. He was shaking the rain from his trilby hat. A silver badge glinted from his lapel. He replaced his hat, turned up his jacket collar and continued to watch the chapel doors from the hillside. 'D'you think he's here for t'funeral, or sommat else?'
'Why dunt he go in to t'church?' Kick asked.
'He might be nowt to do with 'em,' said Billy.
'Why's he up there then?' asked Yvonne. 'It’s siling down. He's gerrin soaked. He could be in the church - keeping dry.'
He had seemed innocuous to Billy, but Yvonne's suspicions led him to study the old guy more closely. Quietly smoking as he watched events at the chapel door, he struck Billy as being more curious than grieving. 'Humm, I don't know,' he said. 'We'll keep an eye on him.'
Kick soon became restless. He stood up and stretched, shrugging off his elderberry camouflage. 'I'm fed up wi' this. How long 'ave we gorra stay 'ere?'
'Half an hour at least,' said Yvonne. 'They'll have prayers and then sing sommat.'
'Chuffing 'eck! I'm not waiting half an hour. We've seen 'em all now, and we didn't recognize nobody. We might as well tek-us-hooks.'
Billy too was disappointed, though at least he had seen Doctor Longden, and that might be a clue. But, he had hoped for more. He needed a lead, some useful clue to spark off the case. Instead, he'd learned little more than the dead man's name. Henry Darnley, the victim of the Man’s Head murder, still remained a mystery. And now, soaked to the skin and prickled by his elderberry disguise, it was not difficult to agree with Kick. 'Yeah, this worra a dead loss. Let's tek-us-hooks. '
'Look! He's gone,' cried Yvonne, pointing to the rise where the old man had been standing. 'He was right there - then puff – he's gone.'
'He's left sommat behind,' said Kick. 'Look - on that gravestone.'
Billy wiped his glasses with his fingers and peered through the rain. He could just make out a small, rectangular object, about the size of a cigarette packet. 'I think it's just his fags.'
'We'd better 'ave a look,' said Yvonne. 'It could be us first clue.'
Shedding elderberry branches, Billy stomped up the hill, his eyes fixed on the little object on the gravestone. He was soon disappointed when it turned out to be nothing more than a cigarette packet – an empty one. Yvonne picked up a wind-blown memorial card, shook the rain off it, and began scribbling notes on it.
Billy examined the cigarette packet, swore at it, and tossed it aside. 'Nowt! Another waste o' time.'
Yvonne frowned at him and retrieved the packet from the ground. She wiped it on her raincoat and inspected it closely. 'Everything has to be recorded,' she said. 'It’s all evidence until you know that it's definitely not.' She made more notes, then, eyeing the boys crossly, pocketed her evidence.
0o0o0
Chapter Six
Ruff repeatedly nudged Billy with his nose, desperate to attract his attention. The little dog hated it when Billy sat reading, or crayoning, or doing anything that did not involve him. Billy elbowed him away and carried on reading. Deep in the pages of his dad's copy of The Star evening newspaper, under the headline: Dance Floor Drowning, he had found a brief report of the second murder victim's funeral. The article revealed little more than the dead man's name; James Hepburn, a solicitor.
Once again, the thought that such an unusual death should receive so little press coverage, troubled him. After a brief initial frenzy of sensational headlines, the story had vanished from the pages of the local and national newspapers. It had been the same with the Man’s Head murder. At first, both deaths had attracted major press interest. Newspapers had revelled in the opportunities for gory headlines. Editors exploited every angle in the telling and retelling of the stories until all of them lost interest, seemingly at the same time. It was as if someone had thrown a switch. Even with neither murder solved, the nation's top story was the last journey of London's last tramcar.
It had to be a cover up, Billy thought. Trams were terrific, he loved them, but surely, the tabloids would prefer a juicy murder to the last run of an old tram.
If it was a cover up, why was it? And, was there a link between the two deaths? Had the victims known each other? They were of a similar age, around sixty, and were both respected professionals. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the police, or some other powerful agency, was smothering the story. Only a year before, the authorities' grubby efforts to hide the old Star Woman's murder had started him and his friends on the road of crime detection. It seemed, once again, that there was cause to be concerned. He shrugged, tightened his lips across his teeth and briefly took on the persona of Humphrey Bogart in the Maltese Falcon. If this is how the cookie crumbles, they'd better watch out.
He shrugged Humphrey from his mind and switched to thinking about The Star's reporters. He thought of them struggling to write their stories with police, armed with blue pencils, breathing down their necks. He imagined faceless coppers striking out anything they did not want revealed. This brought Harry Clegg to mind. It was Harry who had given him the nickname The Tuppenny Hat Detective. They’d got on very well when he'd reported on the Star Woman's murder, although Harry had often tried to put words into his mouth. He decided to pay him a visit. He would go to his office in the city centre. Harry would know if there was a cover up. Better than anybody, Harry Clegg understood the city’s political eddies and tides, especially its hidden undertow. Billy knew that if minded to, Harry would be able to suggest ways through any official smokescreen, without even admitting there was such a thing.
Sounds of his father waking and moving about upstairs interrupted his thoughts. His dad was on nights and would be getting up ready to go to work. Billy knew he'd be down any minute to wash at the kitchen sink, grab a mug of tea and a slice of bread and dripping, and dash out to catch the tram to the steelworks across town. Billy carefully refolded the newspaper, smoothed out its creases and placed it on the dining table next to the ex-army gasmask bag in which his dad carried his snap, mashings' tin, milk bottle and cigarettes.
&nbs
p; Frank Perks shied a half-eaten cream cracker at Billy as he entered the room. 'D'you give Ruff them biscuits? There's crumbs all up the stairs. Your mam'll skin you.'
'It weren't me. He sniffs out the packet if it's not put away properly,' Billy explained.
'Blimey! Must've been me then,' his dad confessed. 'Still, no harm done. I told your mam it was you.' He grabbed Billy playfully and wrestled him to the floor. Ruff seized the opportunity to finish off the cream cracker.
After a brief tumble, laughing and coughing breathlessly, the pair leaned back against the settee. 'D'you like work, Dad?'
'No choice, Billy. Everybody has to work, even the king - ugh, I mean queen. Cripes, I'll never get used to us having a queen.'
Billy ignored his slip. 'But, is it Hot Money that’s making you ill, Dad?'
Frank Perks eyed his son, smiled and dropped his arm around the lad's shoulders. 'No of course not. That's just working in a bit of heat, that's all. Yer gerra bit sweaty. That's why they only let us do a bit at a time.'
'But if it's so hot, why do you have to wear a sports coat?' Billy thought of the times his mother had begged old tweed jackets that neighbours were throwing out. Even the rag and bone man saved them for her.
'A thick jacket keeps the heat off. I can keep working a bit longer. And when they're all dried out and scorched, I just chuck 'em away and start wi' another one.' He studied his son's expression, and hugged him fiercely. 'Hey, what's brought this on?'
Billy looked back at him sheepishly. 'Somebody told me, Hot Money can kill you.'
'That's rubbish. Hot money's good for us, Billy. It means we can gerra week at Scarborough or Bridlington every year, as well as a good Christmas and a fat capon.'
'What's a capon?'
'Oh shurrup wi thee questions. I've gorra go to work. I've gorra make up for them sick days I've had off . And no!, before you say owt, it weren't because of hot money.'
*
Later, in the old greenhouse, the pink tip of Yvonne's tongue popped out as she concentrated on transcribing notes into a school exercise book. Kick stood behind her, rubbing at the MOM board with a filthy handkerchief. Occasionally he stopped to peek over her shoulder at what she had written. 'Why bother wi’ that?' he asked, spotting something unexpected.
'It was carved on the gravestone where that old man was standing.'
'So what?'
'I don't know what, but it might turn out to be evidence or sommat.' Yvonne stiffened her shoulders and plied on resolutely. 'You can never tell what'll be useful.'
Kick read out the note in a derisory tone. 'Mary Scott, born 8th December 1895 - died 12th December 1940. "Brutally murdered in the Marples Massacre."
Billy sat up sharply in his creaking deckchair. 'Marples Massacre!' He leaned closer to Yvonne and read the note for himself.
Kick frowned at the pair. 'What's the Marples' Massacre?'
'Gerries dropped a bomb on the Marples Hotel,' Yvonne told him. 'We did it at school. It were full o' people. They were all blown to smithereens,'
'What – how many?'
'I don't know - burrit worra lot,' she said.
'She must have been one of 'em,' Billy said sadly. 'I know a bit about it, because my uncle Fred was there. He got out though. It was just before Christmas - in the war.'
'In Sheffield?' Kick queried.
'Aye, in Fitzalan Square. It's all boarded off now, but tha can still see into t'ruins from upstairs on a tram.'
Kick was silent for a moment, deep in thought, before he said: 'I'm sorry for her, an' all that, but what's it got to do wi' the dance floor drowning or the Man’s Head murder?'
Yvonne cast him a withering glance. 'Who said it did? All I said was, we should keep notes of everything we find out until we know if it's a clue or not.'
Billy perked up again, setting his deck chair creaking. 'Everything? How the 'ell can we do that?' he asked. 'We don't even know what we're looking for. We only went to that chuffin funeral to find out who the bloke was, and look what's happened? We've come away wi' more cummerbunds than we had to start with.'
'Conundrums,' Yvonne corrected despairingly. 'Cummerbunds are belts, yer wassock.'
Billy ploughed on undeterred. 'We shouldn't get us-selves bogged down with stuff that dunt matter, and you can’t save everything anyway. That's a daft idea.'
With a final precise stroke of his handkerchief, Kick demonstrated his satisfaction that the MOM board was clean and ready for use. He carefully leaned it against a stack of upturned terracotta plant pots. Taking a stick of chalk, he drew two vertical lines to create three columns of equal width. Across the top he entered the headings, Means / Opportunity / Motif.
'Vee – Vee, it's a Vee,' cried Yvonne. 'Motive not motif.'
Kick made the correction without a hint of chagrin.
'And why don’t you put an extra column in for notes and other names instead of having to squeeze 'em in at the front? You can’t read 'em when they're all squashed up.' She eyed him flatly and fingered her dark curls into place behind her ears.
Kick ignored her suggestion. Yvonne snapped shut her notebook and began pacing between ghostly ranks of desiccated tomato plants. After a moment she stopped and faced the boys. 'They told us at school there's a special grave for all them killed in the blitz. It's like a memorial – same as they have for soldiers.' Looking off thoughtfully she pulled a curl to the corner of her mouth and released it. 'I don't understand it.'
Billy looked up from cleaning his spectacles. 'Why not?' he said. 'It's better to have a proper memorial than some scrappy little grave that'll fall over and be forgotten.'
'No, I mean, why isn't she buried with all the others – Mary Scott? And why does it say she was murdered. People never said murdered about the blitz. They said "killed in the blitz," not murdered. It’s what they all said – everybody.'
Billy and Kick exchanged solemn glances. 'I think you should write that down, Wy,' said Billy. 'You might be on to sommat there.'
For a while the three sat gazing miserably at the MOM board, its empty columns seeming to mock them. 'Wiv gorra do sommat,' said Kick. 'How can we have a dead swimmer and dead bloke at Man’s Head - and still have no clues.'
'And nowhere to write names,' Yvonne said, giving her suggestion another plug.
'We need to go back to the day before it all started,' said Billy.
Kick shot him a derisory glance. 'Oh aahh! How do we do that? Chuffin time travel.'
'Research,' Yvonne said, coming swiftly to Billy's aid. 'We can look at old newspapers; back numbers they call 'em. Find out what was in 'em the day before and on the day it happened.' She paused and looked at each of the lads. 'Was it raining? Did anything strange happen? We could ask the farmer if he were moving his sheep up at Man’s Head? Did he see any climbers on the rocks, or hikers?'
'And who were them two hikers that found the body?' Kick suggested.
Billy looked relieved. He knew what must be done, but hadn't known how to do it until Yvonne spoke up. 'Yeah and I'll go and see Mister Clegg,' he said. 'I bet he can tell us sommat.'
'Me and Kick can make a list of all the things we want to check up on. We can split it up between us,' Yvonne said. 'We'll soon have 'em all done.'
*
It was later that same day when Harry Clegg placed two pennies on the telephone box shelf above the coin box and squinted out through the kiosk window. He consulted his notebook, put the telephone receiver to his ear and fed the coins into the slot. A tramcar rattled by as he dialled Doctor Hadfield's home number. He waited, listening to the ring tones. His thumb hovered over Button A, ready to press it when the call was picked up. There was no answer so he pressed Button B to get his tuppence back and grumpily shouldered his way out of the telephone box.
His mood lifted suddenly when he spotted Yvonne Sparkes. He had photographed her a year before, when working on the Star Woman Murder story. He waved and crossed the busy road to her, losing his hat in his haste. Yvonne laughed and picked it up for hi
m.
'Thanks!' he said, dusting it down with his cuff. 'You're Yvonne aren't you? Do you remember me?'
Yvonne looked up at him through a tangle of dark curls. 'Of course I do; Mister Clegg. My friend Billy, you know, Billy Perks, he wants to talk to you.' She fingered her hair coyly and moved it into place behind her ears.
'Oh, so you're still friends are you? And what's his name - the other boy?'
'Michael Morley, Kick we call him, yes we're all still friends.'
'You three made a great detective team.' He eyed her craftily. 'And there was that chap who helped you – now, what was his name?' Harry knew very well who he meant, but played the innocent, hoping to draw Yvonne on to his side.
'Doctor Hadfield? she queried. 'Yes, he and Billy are still great friends.'
'And does he still help you with your detective work?'
'Well, we aren't really detectives any more, but if we were I'm sure he'd like to help us.'
'Not detectives? Gosh, not even with the Dance Floor Drowning?’ he spoke in a jokey, sotto voce, and glanced around as if sharing a great secret. ‘I made that up, you know; Dance Floor Drowning. Good int it?'
Yvonne giggled, not sure what to say.
'Surely you'll try to solve that one. And what about the Man’s Head murder – that was really spooky wasn't it?'
Yvonne began to feel slightly awkward. She suspected that Harry was simply fishing for a story for his paper. She remembered how he had tried to put words in their mouths the last time they had dealt with him. 'Excuse me, but is there something you want, Mister Clegg? Is it about Billy and Doctor Hadfield?'
Clegg smiled and shrugged, turning up his palms as if caught out. 'OK. You got me,' he said. 'I can see I can’t fool you. Yes, I do want something. I wanted to know if the old detective team was together again. And also, will the doctor be helping you like last time?' He laughed and gestured with his hands as if scribbling notes. 'It’ll make a nice little story.'
Dance Floor Drowning Page 6
