Dance Floor Drowning

by Brian Sellars

  'Any idea who it is?'

  'Could be anybody,’ he said ruefully. ‘Over the years I’ve upset a lot of people in this city. Some criminals can get very self-righteous when you expose ‘em in the paper, not to mention the husbands I catch doing naughty things behind their wives’ backs.’ He paced about peering into every corner and looking under pots and seed boxes. 'You'd better keep a sharp look out, Billy. The nearer you get to solving this murder the nearer you are to getting your head bashed in.’

  'Blimey, it can't be that bad.'

  ‘Why not? If the killer thinks you’re getting close, he’ll try to stop you. He doesn’t want to swing on the hangman’s rope.’

  Billy shuddered. ‘Well he’s pretty safe at the moment. We’re not getting anywhere. I think I might know how it was done, but I don’t have a clue about motive or who it was.’

  A tense silence followed. Harry bit his lip thoughtfully and looked around. Billy watched him prowl the aisle fiddling aimlessly with the old plant labels, pots and bits of string. 'Do you know about Spring Heeled Jack?' Billy asked.

  Clegg looked bemused. ‘Yes, it's a kid's rhyme. Why?’

  ‘It talks about the old tunnels under the city.’

  'So what?’ he snapped. ‘He’s not the killer. I can promise you that.’

  ‘Was it you who gave those notes to Doc Hadfield?’ Billy asked. ‘He says it's illegal. He's probably already been to the cops about it.'

  Clegg smiled and nodded. 'I thought he would do, but I guessed he'd at least read them first. He did, didn't he?'

  Billy nodded. Clegg looked relieved.

  'The doc said they show that someone's trying to hide the truth. He's going to see the post mortem doctor.’ There was no reaction from Clegg. ‘Did you know that Professor Darnley's jacket is missing? The forensic people think he was killed where they found him, and yet he had no jacket, and no way of getting there.'

  Clegg eyed him critically. 'Who told you that?'

  'Nobody. I just said it to me sen.'

  'You're not as daft as you look, Billy Perks. But watch out! Killers are ruthless. Somebody has been sitting on a massive secret for more than ten years. I don't know exactly what it is, but I think it’s got something to do with a bank robbery during the war…'

  'You mean when the Marples was bombed?'

  Clegg stared at Billy, astonished. 'Good Lord, how do you know about that?'

  'I don't. That's what I'm trying to find out about.'

  'Leave it alone, Billy. Please. You don’t know what you're getting into.'

  'You were in that hotel,' Billy said unmoved. 'You escaped and wrote about it afterwards.’

  Clegg grabbed at the greenhouse door. He cracked it open a fraction and peered outside. 'Listen. Somebody might be coming.' He shut the door and turned back to Billy. 'Yes I was there. And I'm pretty sure that what happened that night is behind all of this. One of the victims was there too. Did you know that?'

  'Who?'

  'I wish I knew for sure, but I haven't quite worked it all out yet. I think Flood is also involved somehow, but I don’t know how. Two of them are dead already. That's the two murders, Hepburn and Darnley. There could be more to come.' He leaned his head back and looked up at the bright morning sunlight striking the whitewashed windowpanes. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Billy watched him and waited silently.

  'It was terrible that night. We couldn't see for the dust and dark, and I was deaf for days afterwards. All I can say with any certainty is that there were six or seven of us in that cellar; two women and five men, at least I think so. One man, the pub's accordionist, went back to help somebody. We never saw him again. We'd found a tunnel. We didn't know where it led to, but cold air was coming in. We split up into two groups so that we could search in both directions. My group got lucky and came out near the fish market. We tried to go back to tell the others but the police stopped us. They sent in two coppers to find them instead. Believe it or not, one of ‘em was that creep Flood. He was just a sergeant back then.'

  'Did he find them?'

  ‘No. They must have got out somewhere else and just walked off into the night.'

  'And now you think one of 'em is murdering the others?'

  'Yes, and there'll be more,' warned Harry.

  'Spring Heeled Jack knows their realm,' said Billy, closely watching Clegg's reaction.

  'Shuddup with the bloody Spring Heeled Jack nonsense; this's serious, Billy. You could get yourself hurt – even killed. It's not a game. You've got to keep out of it, Billy. Somebody is watching you, and me too.' He picked up the MOM board from where it leaned against the rickety stack of plant pots and began reading it. 'Is this all you've got?'

  'So far, but we'll get more.'

  'Not if they get you first.' He shoved the MOM board disdainfully back into place. The stack of plant pots reeled and rocked. Clegg tried to catch it, but too late. It toppled, crashing to the floor. Something shiny with polished wood and glittering brass work clattered into view amid the scattering shards. Clegg gaped at it. 'What the hell's that?' He bent close and picked up a sphygmomanometer. It was made of burr-elm effect Bakelite with brass fittings and dial. It glinted in the early morning sunshine.

  Billy gaped at it. 'Chuffing eck! That’s the thing that was nicked.'

  'It's a blood pressure tester. Where the devil did you get it?' Clegg asked.

  'I never!'

  'Well, I warned you, Billy. You've got to be very careful. Obviously somebody's trying to set you up.' Clegg glanced at his wristwatch. 'We'd better get rid of it before they come to search and find it here.' He reached out to pick it up.

  Billy grabbed it away from him. 'Don't worry. I'll take care of it.'

  'Where will you put it?'

  'Somewhere they'll never see it.' He ran out of the greenhouse before Clegg could object, and disappeared into the rampant lilac, privet and rhododendron shrubs surrounding the overgrown garden.

  Clegg stepped back into the greenhouse and glanced around. He picked up the MOM board and hung it where he had placed it the year before to photograph the trio of pals. It had all been so positive then, he thought. Now it was deadly dangerous. He shook his head ruefully. Perhaps if he and his newspaper had not made the three children quite so famous, they would not now be in danger. He left and headed for his car, wondering what perils lay ahead for him and the three young detectives.

  Meanwhile, Billy was in familiar territory, a derelict, shadowy space, like a forgotten footpath; the domain of prowling cats, urban foxes and kids backnacking. It ran between the old garden, and the hedges and fences of adjoining properties. Ducking low he crept to where it ended at the walled junction of two streets; Highton Street, perilously steep, and Camm Street, running on the level across the breast of the hillside.

  Before the luxury of tap water, Camm Street had given access to a public well, now hidden behind a high wall. It had supplied most of upper Walkley's drinking water, and still flowed to a succession of wells down into the valley and the River Don. He scroamed over the wall and dropped into the secret well-space, where, for years folk had met daily and chatted as they filled their buckets and ewers. Worn smooth by years of use the stonework and pavers were now overgrown and skewed. Between them, the crystal waters gurgled softly as they churned to the surface in the old stone cistern.

  Billy hid the sphygmomanometer under a loose paving stone and then started to climb back out to the street. First he peered cautiously over the wall to make sure it was clear. Apart from a patrolling tomcat, the street of grey stone cottages was empty. He was on the point of jumping out when a police sergeant, his old enemy, the sneering driver who had picked him up and taken him to Flood’s office, turned into Camm Street from Highton Street. Two other people followed him; PC Needham and Marion Perks, his mam.

  Unseen, Billy watched them pass. His mam looked worried. So did John Needham, who kept patting her gently on the shoulders to comfort her. Billy surmised that she was being led to the gre
enhouse. No doubt the sergeant would pretend to search it and discover the blood pressure tester, while she looked on. This was the very set up that John Needham had warned him about.

  Billy felt a sudden moment of panic and wondered if Harry Clegg would still be there. Tears fogged his sight as he watched the three go by. He wanted to wave to his mam and assure her it was all right. He felt scared and confused, but even so, he wished he could be there to see the look on the sergeant's face when he searched the greenhouse and found nothing but broken plant pots.

  0o0o0

  Chapter Fifteen

  If it had not been such a comical sight, Billy might have found it scary: Walter Mebbey wearing clodhopping boots, knee-length gym shorts and a floppy vest. He was straining beneath the weight of an enormous barbell; face bright red, cheeks puffed out, and his eyes shut tight as if to prevent them popping out of his head. Billy feared that at any moment the old guy might explode in a mess of pluck and bootlaces. At last, the barbell headed sedately for the floor. It clanged dully onto a thick coconut fibre mat.

  Red and sweating, Walter’s cheeks puffed out as he blew with relief. He ran a finger over each separate disc of weight on the bar, checking the total loading. He looked smugly satisfied, and approached Billy with a big smile on his sweating face. 'There's only Julian Creus, at my weight, who could lift more than that, and he gorra medal at the Olympics. He towelled his face and arm pits, bouncing on his short bowed legs and heavy work boots. 'Int thee dad wi thee?'

  'He's at work.'

  'Good footballer thee dad were. I don't know why he never played for t'Blades.'

  Billy almost choked on the thought. 'No, the Owls!' he cried in alarm. 'Me dad's norra Blade.'

  Walter chuckled, well aware that his deliberate slip would set the lad's heart thumping. 'Lets gerra cuppa tea and have a talk. I expect that's why tha'rt here?'

  'Yeah, I want to know about the Marples' bomb and the bank robbery.'

  Walter led him to a quiet corner where a brass tap dripped into a sink. Beside it, an upturned tea chest served as a table for a kettle steaming on a gas ring. Tin mugs, a battered teapot, milk bottle and a jar of saccharin sweeteners cluttered its stained surface.

  Walter poured strong tea into two mugs and expertly spooned off the tealeaf floaters, flicking them at the sink where they stuck like sleeping ants. 'I thought thar'd get round to wondering about the Marples' bomb sooner or later,' he said, nodding his hotly pink bald head. 'That's worrit's all about, tha knows.' He stirred saccharin into his tea and sipped it. Billy sat on a gym bench pushed up against the wall and waited for him to go on. 'I guess there were about six or eight of us trapped in that cellar that night.'

  'You were there?' cried Billy. 'Chuffing 'eck!'

  'Aye, and him from t'paper an' all.'

  'Mister Clegg? Yeah, I knew about him.'

  'But I can't be sure who else. It were coal black, tha sees. Bricks and plaster and bottles and bits of furniture kept falling on us - even a bloody piano. Folks were screaming. We'd got separated from t'others. It weren't one big cellar, tha sees. It were lots of little uns. Some were snided wi' folk, packed in like sardines. Some just had a few in 'em. Afterwards, they said seventy were killed. It always seems a damn sight more to me. The place were packed out before the bomb. The bar were jumping - you could hardly get served.' He took another swig of his tea and nodded reflectively. 'When we all went down to t'cellars I were walking about playing my accordion. They were all singing and laughing. There were still folk upstairs in t'main bar. I've always thought it seemed a lot more than seventy, but you don't go round counting folk, do you?' He took another sip of tea and pressed his muscular shoulders back against the wall, as if to ease some deeply felt pain.

  'The explosion was massive - not loud, but massive. It stuffed your whole body full, like a hard punch that hit you everywhere all at once, even in your feet and fingers. Then there's no air left. You try to breathe in, but there's nowt there. You can't inhale – it's weird. Then it were pitch black. You're blind and deaf and choking. You don't even know if you're the reight way up. You scroam about like a squalling bairn. You can't tell where to go or what to do.' He shook his head and nipped the beginnings of tears from his eyes, blinking furiously. 'Then comes the worst part; the part you never forget. The part that comes over and over in your nightmares. It starts when your ears pop, and at first you thank God for that, but then you hear it. It rushes in on you like a peep into Hell, and you wish you were deaf again.’

  ‘What does?’ Billy’s eyes were wide with alarm.

  ‘Screaming!’ the old man sniffed and wiped a hand over his face. ‘They're all screaming – everybody; men and women alike; weeping and screaming – terrible, desperate cries, but thiz nowt tha can do. Tha can't see, but tha knows that folks are dying all around thee. They beg for help, - crying out like bairns - begging for their mams, their husbands and wives. And there's nowt tha can do. You're just stuck there like soft Mick. You can't see 'em. You can't get to 'em, and if you could there's nowt you can do for 'em.' He shook his head, and then towelled his face and neck.

  Billy waited, watching the old man. It was obvious that he was seeing it all happen again in his mind's eye. When he spoke again, his gestures were weaker, almost flippant and despairing. 'I scrambled around in t’dark until I found a few others. We joined forces and started searching for a way out. After a bit, the cries get quieter. You're glad for that first, until you realise why. It's because they're dead, or dying – lots of 'em. They can’t scream no more.' He sniffed and looked around, taking a moment to compose himself. 'It's when the quiet comes that you realise just how many there were. You even start thinking of yourself as one of 'em – dead – but not yet. And still the silence grows. It get's thicker and thicker.'

  He finished his tea and towelled his face again. 'I remember we all stopped digging and waited, listening to that deep, thick silence. It was as if we all knew that we were part of some massive "dying moment". The soundless din of souls departing. It's the quietest thing I've ever known.' He sniffed and fished a handkerchief from a pocket in his shorts. He didn't use it, but went on talking. 'After a bit the crying started up again, but not as much, just a few this time; a faint, sobbing few. They sounded far away. We knew we couldn't get to 'em. Then I heard a woman, she sounded closer. I went back to look for her. She had a beam on her leg. She knew she were dying. She was calm and brave – no panic, no self-pity. She just grabbed me hand and died. I think she just wanted somebody to know – not just do it with nobody to see.'

  'When I crawled back to t'others, they'd all gone. It was still pitch black. I only had a few matches left so I dint strike one. Anyway, you can always tell if you're alone or not. It's a feeling you get. I realised they must've found a way out, so I scroamed around until I found it an' all. It worra big enough hole to easily get through. I struck a match and saw this passage. It were as clean and sound as a new built netty. I found out later that it was part of some old Sheffield Castle tunnels and dungeons. Seven hundred years old, they told me.'

  'The woman who died,' said Billy. 'Was that her grave - Mary Scott?'

  'No, I never knew who she was.' He made a strange little harrumphing noise, as if to emphasize the point. 'Mary Scott was different. I think she was with the others; one of those that went out through the hole in the wall before I got there.'

  'But she died that night. It says so on the gravestone.'

  'Aye, I know it does, but she survived the bomb blast. She was killed later.'

  'But you just said she was with the people who found their way out.'

  'I think she was, but I told thee, it were dark. I never saw nobody's face. I know Clegg was there because he wrote about it in his paper later on. And I heard the names of two of 'em; Longden and Darnley. They spoke to each other; they were friends, but I couldn't have recognized either of 'em. It were pitch dark remember. And yes, I believe Mary Scott was with them, alive and well at that stage. It was her and another woman, I
think they called her Clarry, who found the tunnel, but she had her face wrapped in a scarf, because of the dust. We could hardly breathe.'

  'Darnley?' Billy asked.

  'Aye, I thought that might interest thee.' He smiled nodding his head. 'Darnley, him they found murdered at Rivelin.' Walter drained his tea mug, tested the weight of the teapot and decided against a second cup. 'I found out later that he was a professor at the university. He had a lot to do with Weston Park Museum, 'an all. He was an expert on ancient manuscripts. Apparently he went all over the world giving talks.'

  'Why did you go to his funeral?'

  'Two reasons. I know Mary Scott was not the poor woman I tried to help, but in a strange way she represented her - in my head. It might be stupid, but since December 1940 I've often thought of that poor woman.' He paused, silent for a moment, rapidly blinking his eyes.

  Billy waited a heartbeat then asked, 'And the second reason?'

  'Second? Huh, I was suspicious about how Mary Scott died.'

  'Why?'

  'Mainly because apart from Clegg, none of 'em – not one, came forward afterwards to say they'd escaped.' He paused again staring at Billy. 'Why not? Why hide it?'

  Billy shrugged his shoulders, unable to think of a reason. 'So, they're not in the seven people that escaped?'

  'No they're not; that was seven innocent people who the authorities knew all about. Darnley and his lot never told anybody. Nobody knew they were there - not officially anyway. And then, sure enough, about a week later, fire-fighters checking all the tunnels, found her body. It was in the paper. Clegg wrote about it. He said that she was found more than a hundred yards from the Marples Hotel. That's when I started wondering. After the war, Harry Clegg helped me to trace the fireman who'd found her body. He was a volunteer, cos of the war. He said he'd always had his suspicions, because she was found under builders' stone, not rubble from the bomb blast.'