Dance Floor Drowning

by Brian Sellars

  Billy reared up defensively. 'But, tha said we've to record everything. Tha said we can't never know what's not evidence until tha knows it definitely int.'

  Billy chuckled and pulled a yah-boo face at her.

  Yvonne gritted her teeth, wrote on the board and then stepped back to review it.

  Mary Scott / Marples bomb / Walter Mebbey

  Spring Heeled Jack / Queen's Head pub / Mary Queen of Scots

  Billy took the chalk from her and stepped up to the board. 'And we also know that Henry Darnley, the Man’s Head victim, was killed where he stood on that day. And another thing is…' He stopped, chalk poised, frowning with concentration, 'I think the bigwigs are trying to gag the pathologist.' He wrote: Darnley killed at MH / Who is gagging corpse doc?

  'What's M H?' asked Kick

  'Man’s 'eeyad!' chorused Yvonne and Billy. Kick shrugged. All three fell silent and stared at the board. Time passed, a bee bumbled about the whitewashed glass panes trying to find its way out, repeatedly ignoring the hole through which it had entered. The stack of terracotta pots emitted faint grating sounds as it settled to its use as an easel for the MOM board. Yvonne's deck chair squeaked with her every gloomy exhalation. Billy forgot he was not alone and picked his nose.

  'Oh sithee - tha mucky pup,' said Kick, pulling a face at Billy's nasal excavations. 'Gi' o'er picking, tha'll pull thee brains aht.'

  It was Billy's turn to hide his face.

  Kick refocused on the MOM board. 'I can't see owt connecting owt wi' nowt,' he said. 'And any road up, what's t'Marples’ bomb got to do wi' it? And why Spring Heeled Jack? That's just an owd tale for scaring chabbies.'

  'I don't know, but somehow they're all connected,' said Billy. 'We just can't see it yet.' He took the MOM board and hung it back on its nail behind the stove. 'We'll keep it facing out this way so we can look at it every day until sommat clicks.' He glanced at their faces. 'Sommat's bound to click sooner or later.'

  Yvonne stood and faced the two lads. 'I know what we can do.'

  'What? Billy asked, looking up expectantly.

  'For a start tha could tek us to thee granny's,' Yvonne said. 'She knows all about history. She's always goin' on about the olden days.'

  Kick brightened. 'Aah, we could ask her about Marples. She knows everything about bombs and the war.'

  Billy narrowed his eyes. 'Hum, tha could be reight, Wy. Come on, let's go now.'

  Granny Smeggs lived in a one-up-one-down stone cottage at the end of a terrace of three identical dwellings. Well-kept flower gardens fronted the neat row, behind a six-foot high sandstone wall. The display of pink rambler roses around granny’s cottage door would have done justice to the lid of any chocolate box.

  A shared picket gate opened onto the gardens. A powerful spring, recycled from some forgotten industrial purpose, held it shut against all but the most determined visitor. Billy pushed passed it, recalling how the postman often claimed that granny's gate was "more vicious than a wild dog".

  A wild, hummocky space at the back of the cottages had been Billy's favourite playground. It had scrubby trees, long grass, brambles and the mysterious foundations of long lost buildings, whose original purpose not even granny Smeggs could explain.

  The side of granny's garden adjoined the site of the old Star Woman's brutal murder, a ramshackle terrace of Tudor, oak beamed cottages. The three pals glanced in respectful silence as they passed by it, each recalling their part in tracking down the old woman’s killer.

  Granny opened her door. 'What, all three of you?' she hooted. 'There's not enough cake for three. You'll have to have toast. Seed cake's not 'lastic. It won't stretch.'

  Billy launched himself into the only free armchair. Granny's big rocker, with its complex arrangement of loose cushions, was the only other comfortable chair, and no one would dare to take that. Kick pulled out a dining chair and sat at the table. Yvonne did the same, but not until she had asked permission.

  'Yes lovie, you sit down,' Granny said smiling graciously. 'If he was a gentleman, he'd budge up and let you sit with him instead of sprottling out like a drunk's dishcloth. That's the cat's pog anyway.' She gave Billy a stern look. 'You'll have to shift if she comes in.'

  Missis Smeggs removed the tea towel covering half a loaf of bread on her table, and began slicing. Billy had always admired the precision of granny's slicing. His pals took a slice each and moved to the fireplace to toast them. Granny always had a fire, even in summer; without it there would be no hot water for tea.

  'How's your mam, Yvonne?' Granny Smeggs asked. 'I saw her in the co-op. She'd a lovely camel jacket on. It looked too good for a Tuesday.'

  'She's very well, Missis Smeggs, thank you. She said she'd seen you.'

  'We wanted to ask about the Marples’ bombing, Missis Smeggs,' said Kick, not wishing to waste time on talk of camels' coats. 'Do you know owt about it?'

  'I should think I do know. I'd a friend who was in it. Billy calls him his uncle Fred. He's not a real uncle though. Him and his wife are just very good family friends. Anyway, he got out somehow, but he would never speak of it. They were badly shaken, all them that got out.'

  'Were many hurt?'

  'Oh it was awful, lovie. They were having such a good time, you see - when the siren went. It was coming up to Christmas. The twelfth of December. The pub was packed. Then bang! More than seventy killed in one terrible blast.' She looked skyward and sighed shaking her head sadly. 'First the shop across the road, C&A Modes, took a direct hit. The blast from that injured some of 'em in the pub. It took all the windows out, you see - glass flying everywhere. Them that weren't already sheltering dashed down into the cellars after that. There was nowhere else to go, not with all the bombs dropping. They had no choice.’

  ‘Then it happened; a direct hit. The whole roof and everything blew apart and crashed down on them. It killed them all, except only about six or seven. The papers said the survivors had been in a little cellar. Some university expert said it was stronger because it was so small.' She dabbed her eyes and bit her lip, blinking rapidly. 'The all-clear didn't go until about four in the morning. Huh, Friday the thirteenth. They were digging them out for days – bodies. A lot were so badly mangled up and blown apart that they couldn't tell what bit went with what. More than seventy died. It was awful.' She dug into her apron pocket and pulled out a large handkerchief, eschewing the delicate lace one peeping decoratively from the same place. She blew her nose and wiped her tears. The children watched in silence.

  The tick of her clock seemed extra loud as she took a sip from her cup. She pulled a face on finding only cold dregs and tea leaves. Yvonne swung the kettle hob over the heat of the fire and lifted the kettle lid to check there was enough water for another cup.

  'There were stories about folk never being seen again,' Granny said softly as she stared into the fire. 'One minute they would have been drinking happily with somebody. They'd see them take shelter, but then they'd vanish. They weren't even found among the dead.' She looked up suddenly, the firelight glinting on her spectacles. 'And you'll never believe this, but on that very same night, some black-hearted thieves broke into the bank opposite Marples and robbed it. Can you believe that?'

  'How much did they pinch?' asked Kick.

  'Nobody knows. They got in through a hole in the wall made by the bombing. The police said they couldn't get into the bank's safe where the money was kept, but they got into a room where the safety deposit boxes were. Some of the boxes were damaged by the bomb blast. They'd come open, so I expect the robbers just took whatever they wanted.'

  'What's a deposit box?' asked Yvonne.

  'It's what rich folks keep their jewellery in.' She gave a little chuckle. 'I didn't have mine in one that night,' she joked.

  'What did they steal?' Kick asked.

  'Nobody knows, love, and I don't suppose they ever will. Rich folk keep some very secret stuff in safety deposit boxes; not just jewels and treasures, but papers and dark secrets. Believe me, some secrets are w
orth more than a bucketful of diamonds to some folk.'

  Billy thought of the thieves working in secret while barely fifty yards away scores of people were dying under tons of rubble, as even more bombs rained down. What could be so valuable that you would ignore the cries of dying people and risk your life with bombs screaming down all around you?

  0o0o0

  Chapter Twelve

  'Do you allow just anyone to wander in here when they feel like it?' Chief Superintendent Flood paced, director of pathology, Doctor Amos Longden's shabby office, as though it was his own private space. He glared around at the glass-partitioned walls, haughtily condemning the obvious lack of security, as well as the man, shuffling awkwardly, seated behind the desk.

  Though well known to each other, Longden and Flood were not friends. Their ingrained hostility went back to the war and in particular the blitz. Flood was then a police sergeant and Longden a senior pathologist. They had taken a dislike to each other for no very good reason leading them to cross swords several times since. Flood’s bullying tactics, invariably prevailed, and so Longden generally avoided him.

  The Coroner's office had reported a breach of security. Flood had seized upon the chance to embarrass his old adversary by personally taking charge of the resulting investigation. A cleaner had found an envelope containing illegal copies of pre-hearing notes in a public area of the Coroner's court. Flood had marched into Longden’s office, unannounced, and spread the papers out across his desk. They concerned the so-called Dance Floor Drowning, and Man’s Head murders. Flood flicked them about with a theatrical flourish as he railed against Longden’s lack of security.

  Beneath his calm exterior, Doctor Amos Longden seethed, but returned Flood’s glare unflinchingly, well aware the chief superintendent was milking the situation to cause him, and his department, as much embarrassment as possible.

  'We know that Hadfield was here, Longden. One of my men saw him - spoke to him. Ten minutes later he saw him leave with Doctor Becket and drive her off in his car.' He placed his palms on Longden's desk and leaned towards him. 'Did she write these to give to him? Or could he have pocketed them unknown to her?'

  'Of course not. It's not her handwriting.' Longden picked up the papers and tossed them aside disdainfully. 'I don’t know whose scribble it is, but I doubt Sarah Becket has ever seen them. And if she had, why would she give them to Hadfield? For that matter, why would he bother to take them? He wouldn’t even know they existed.

  'Hadfield is an interfering nuisance. Worse still, he's in league with that bloody Perks boy. I'm sure you remember the newspapers crowing about him last year. He made your department look like a bunch of fools.'

  'My recollection, chief superintendent, is that it was the police, not my department that looked foolish. What was it the papers called the lad, The Tuppenny Hat Detective? In fact, I believe the same front page article mentioned you by name. Good photograph too.'

  Flood bristled, his baton quivering against his leg. 'We can only deal with actual evidence, and whatever professional interpretation you and your department place upon it. We don't make it up, unlike some.'

  Longden smiled, feeling he had struck a nerve. 'Anyway, I suspect he and Sarah are just friends. After all they're young, single and medical doctors. Why shouldn't they be friends?'

  'Nonsense! She could be passing him information,'

  'About what, for God's sake?'

  'About the post mortems …'

  'Dr Becket is a professional, a respected member of my team. She would not do such a thing. She knows perfectly well not to discuss cases with anyone but an appointed officer of the court, in other words the coroner or me. Also, she's fully aware that as neither of these cases is yet before the coroner, it would not only be professional misconduct, it'd be sub judice, a criminal matter.'

  Longden rose from his desk and crossed the room to a filing cabinet. He unlocked it with a key from his waistcoat pocket and took out a green cardboard folder. It had a stiff flap closure tied with pink tape. He dropped the folder onto his desk and retook his seat. 'All the papers are in here, even her rough notes, and tape recordings. I have the only key to that cabinet. Nothing leaves here without my permission.'

  'So how did important extracts find their way onto a table in the coroner's court?'

  'Simple. They are not our notes. From the look of them, they're extracts from some sort of unofficial preliminary report. That's not the sort of thing we see here. I think you should be looking for your spy at police headquarters. You can't pin this on us.'

  The Chief Superintendent passed his hand over his chin, his face reddening with fury. He tapped the glass partition wall with his baton. 'They’re not from my office, but this place has more holes than a sieve. Glass walls! Huh, ridiculous. It wouldn't stop a child. And you've already admitted Harry Clegg was in here last week - on his own - with the run of the place.'

  'Nonsense, I was expecting him. I found him sitting reading the office copy of Country Life. He hadn't time to steal anything. He'd only been here a few minutes.' Longden sighed with impatience and wafted his hands over the papers on his desk. 'Look, Flood, I'm very busy. You will not find your thief here, and I won't let you invent one out of thin air. As I've already said, these papers are not from this office. They are most likely discussion notes taken by your people or the coroner's office.'

  'One more thing,' said Flood. 'I understand you've taken Sarah Becket off the Rivelin murder case – why is that?'

  'That's an internal matter, nothing to do with you.'

  *

  Rivelin Street, arguably the steepest in Sheffield, offered spectacular views across the valley to a broad expanse of deer park at Stannington. The only buildings to be seen were a few old cottages and a row of spanking new prefabs, built for people bombed out of their houses in the blitz. Billy was on his way to see Francis Simmons, an old friend. Like his granny, Simmons was a mine of information about the old days. He was an old soldier with a treasure chest of stories about Africa and the Boer war, as well as his experiences of the trenches in Flanders. Nowadays he confined his digging to his allotment on the riverbank near the Holly Bush Inn.

  'By eck! Kill the fatted scarf. Look what's weshed up.' The old man straightened up from hoeing a row of carrots and arched his back gratefully. 'Tha must be reight desperate, young Billy. Tha dunt come near me inless tha wants sommat.'

  Billy felt mildly offended, though the image of old Frank attempting to kill a fat scarf made up for it. He hadn't seen him since before Easter when he’d called on him in search of a pot-rabbit for his mam. 'I came t'other day but tha were out,' he lied lamely.

  Francis knew it was a fib, but went along with it. 'So, to what do I owe the pleasure,' he said, adopting a posh tone and doffing his tweed cap with a courtly flourish. 'Don't tell me, I bet I know. It's that bloke they found at Man’s 'eeyad rock, int it? Tharz a detective again. Well if tha thinks I did it, I dint. I never even heard o’ the poor fella.'

  'Wrong. It's not about that. It's about the Marples' bombing. I keep hearing different things, an' I don't know what's reight or wrong. Me Granny sez somebody robbed the bank while the Marples were still burning.'

  'Oh aaarh, they did an' all,’ Francis faced him, suddenly excited by a thought. ‘Eer, tha should ask him – tha knows - that bloke from The Star newspaper, him who took thi - err – photo - last year. He knows better than anybody. He were theer.'

  'Mister Clegg? He was in the hotel?'

  'Oh aargh, he were there alreight. He wrote all about it in t'Star. Tha'll still be able to read it an' all, if tha wants to, int – err - wotsit - library. They keep all them owd newspapers for history. Thiv gorram going back years, even to the South African war.'

  Fearing the onset of one of Corporal Simmons’ tales of army life, Billy dived in quickly to divert him with a question. 'I thought only a few escaped from the Marples; my granny said seven?'

  Francis chewed his cheek for a second, shrugging off mild disappointment.
'She's reight. More than seventy poor souls died, God rest 'em. Only six or seven came out alive. But then there were plenty more who said they got out beeyart nobody seeing 'em. Mind you, they might be just mekkin it up – tha knows, to mek the sens look important like. Tha can't prove nowt one way nor t'other. And there were some that got out and just walked away beeyart telling nobody. Shock tha sees. It makes ‘em a bit puddled, because of the horror of it all.' He shook his head and started towards his garden shed. 'Are tha stopping for a mash, or are tha too busy these days for thee pals?' He paused to peer at a rose bush. 'Look at this poor thing, it's snided wi' greenfly. It wants some soapy watta on it.'

  Billy trailed after him, casually eyeing the stricken rose. 'Was Mister Clegg puddled?'

  'I don't know, but he were big on the story at one time; always going on abaht it in his paper. Then he dropped it, and we never heard no more.'

  Inside the cosy little shed with its stove and battered old kitchenette, Billy slid into a chair at a dining table. A yellowing newspaper, stained with tea mug rings, served as a tablecloth. 'What do you know about the bank robbers?'

  Francis lit a paraffin stove and set a scorched kettle on it to boil. He polished two enamelled mugs on the front of his threadbare cardigan. 'I know they never caught nobody,' he said inspecting his attempts at hygiene. 'And I know they didn't get very much.' He wafted a fly away from his head. 'They gorrin through an oyal a bomb made in a wall. They could only reach a small part of the bank. Not the money in the main safe. That’s why they only robbed some safety deposit boxes. I don't know how many – burrit weren't a lot.'

  'Can you still see where the hole was in the wall?'

  'Oh no, it were all below ground. It was in one of them old tunnels from Sheffield Castle. The bombing had opened it up again. Somehow the thieves gorrin and followed it round to the bank. They say it were some of them who'd escaped from the Marples Hotel. That's just across from the bank. They said they weren't proper bank robbers - just ordinary people who were escaping through them old tunnels. Whoever they were, I bet they thought Christmas had come early. I bet they just grabbed as much as they could and - wotsit - scarpered. It'd pay for a good neet's boozing wunt it?' He doubled up with laughter, tears sparkling in his pale blue eyes.