Dance Floor Drowning

by Brian Sellars

  Sutcliffe gaped murderously. Billy wondered if he'd gone too far with this characterisation. Then, mercifully, the old man's mask slipped. He started laughing silently. 'Tha 'rt a reight cheeky little bugger thee, Billy Perks.' He dusted his palms together in a business-like fashion. 'Look, I'm making thee a reight good offer. I found it. It's not nicked, and all I want for it is ten bob.'

  'Ten bob!' Billy pretended to faint with shock. 'We're not made o' money tha knows.'

  Sutcliffe frowned. 'OK, how much then?'

  'Give it here. I'll tek it to me mam and see what she sez. But I've gorra go now. I'm late. I'm gonna get killed when she sees me.'

  'Tha'll get killed if tha tries to diddle me,' warned Sutcliffe. He handed over the tweed jacket. 'I'll be waiting for thee. Everywhere tha goes from now on, I'll be watching thee.'

  *

  Billy sneaked into the hen house, his favourite secret retreat. He had been making visits there since he was about three years old, but as he got older and bigger, he was finding it more of a struggle to climb in through the hatch and settle on an unoccupied nest box. The hens didn't seem to mind, and he enjoyed their company, particularly their soft crooning clucks as they dozed. He liked the half-light, and the warmth of the place. He even liked the smell, a pungent mixture of straw, bran, and chicken manure.

  He leaned into a beam of sunlight spearing in through the hatch to examine the tweed jacket. There was a small stain on the left elbow. Peaty, crushed vegetation he thought, like a grass stain. The pockets were empty. No surprise there; Sutcliffe would have scoured them thoroughly. Taking hold of the jacket shoulders, he shook it into shape, wondering how big a chap Professor Darnley had been. Though it looked in excellent condition, he saw it would be far too small for his dad's muscular shoulders. As he folded it up again, he spotted a faint bluish mark running across the lapel to the shoulder. It was barely visible, even in the shaft of sunlight. He could not guess what it was; paint, chalk, or metal of some sort. It had no detectable texture or smell.

  He climbed out of his secret retreat and headed up to his house. The coat would be no use to his dad, and without the contents of its pockets, it offered no clues about the killer either. It would not please Sutcliffe.

  His mam hit him with a cucumber as he crept in through the door. It broke in half. One piece skittered under the settee. Ruff ignored it. Wirehaired terriers are not big on salad.

  'It were old Sutcliffe, mam. It weren't my fault,' protested Billy rubbing his head. 'He held me up for ages. I wudda been 'ome on time, else.'

  'Little fibber. Get to bed!'

  'He gen me this jacket for me dad. He wants ten bob for it.'

  His mother eyed him unmoved. 'You heard what I said. Get to bed. If you can’t be here on time, why should I bother to cook for you? Your dad’s never late and he has to come miles from work. So, my lad, no supper, no jacket, and no ten bob! I don’t want to hear another peep from you until you're twenty-one.' She paused, her curiosity hijacked by the jacket. 'Is that Harris Tweed? It looks like it.’

  'Mam, I'm hungry,' Billy whined. ‘I'd 'ave been 'ome early but for Sutcliffe and this flippin jacket. I only did it for you.'

  'Get to bed, but get that cucumber out from under the settee first. It's for Sunday tea.'

  0o0o0

  Chapter Eighteen

  'Me mam waint pay thee for it. It's too small and anyway we usually gerrem for nowt from people.' Billy handed the sports coat to old Sutcliffe.

  The old man grimaced. 'Burrits like a new un. Look, thiz norra mark on it,' he argued, trying to hide the blue stain on the shoulder with his forearm.

  'It is marked, it's got paint on it. Me mam says tha must 'ave pinched it, cos if it were dry cleaned it'd be like a new un.'

  Sutcliffe had pulled Billy into a narrow gennel running between the stone garden walls of two large villas, one of them the old St Mary's vicarage. Though only a few yards from Walkley's busy shopping street, overhanging trees, shrubs and creeping ivy, ensured its leafy seclusion. It was a steep cobbled path ignored by most save rogues and tomcats.

  'Me mam says it's Harris Tweed, they cost at least forty quid. She says me dad would have to work ages for forty quid.'

  'I’m not asking forty quid. I only want ten bob.'

  'Look, Mister Sutcliffe, I think tha should take it to t'cops,' Billy said reasonably. 'It's evidence in a murder. Tha'll be in trouble if they find thaz gorrit. They'll think tha killed him.'

  Sutcliffe's grizzled visage paled. 'I never…'

  'I know that, burrit waint look good if they trace it to thee. It belonged to a murder victim. They're looking everywhere for it.'

  'Thee tek it!’ he said pushing it into Billy’s hands as if it were red hot. ‘I don't want nowt for it.' He stared about wildly. 'Tha can say tha found it. They'll believe thee. They never believe nowt I say.'

  Billy was not surprised to hear that. The old man was behind every bit of skulduggery in the area, from black marketeering to burglary. Murder however, was out of his league. 'How can I take it?’ Billy pushed the coat back into Sutcliffe’s hands ‘They'll want to know where I found it. They'll examine it wi' microscopes and Bunsen burners and stuff. It's called forensic science. They can find out everything about sommat these days. They'll soon know that it were thee who found it.'

  Sutcliffe gazed miserably at the jacket then tossed it aside. 'Tha 'rt a lying little sod, Billy Perks.' He grabbed him by the shirtfront, almost lifting him off his feet. Billy smelled the old man's sour, beery breath. Spittle sprayed into his face as he raged at him. 'Thee take it! Tell 'em tha found it. Tell 'em owt tha wants, burrif tha tells 'em tha gorrit from me, I'll tear thee gizzards out and feed 'em to thee.' He shook him violently and threw him against the wall. Billy fell heavily on his knees and elbows. Sutcliffe bent over him, grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. 'Don't forget, Perks, if them coppers come after me o'er this, I'll get thee, and then I'll kill that bloody dog o' thine and all thee mother's hens.'

  *

  'There, that's fine now; Billy. No real harm done, old lad, just a grazed knee and a bruised elbow. It'll feel sore for a couple of days.' Doc Hadfield resealed a bottle of surgical spirit and popped it into a small kidney shaped medical dish. He moved to the sink in his tiny living room cum kitchen, washed his hands and then searched unsuccessfully for a hand towel. 'Tea's what you need,' he said cheerfully. 'The perfect medicine.' He gave up on the towel and shook his hands, flicking water everywhere before wiping them on his cricket flannels. 'So, aren't you going to tell me who did this to you?'

  'No point. It won't change owt.' Billy slumped in the doctor's armchair, his head withdrawing into his tank-top like a wary tortoise.

  The doctor filled the kettle and set it to boil on his electric stove. He rinsed two teacups, but not their saucers, and set them on the table with a messily opened packet of digestive biscuits. 'Did I mention that I saw your friendly copper just now, constable Needham. He told me he'd found Darnley's sports jacket. He was very pleased with himself.'

  That was quick, thought Billy. Less than one hour had passed since his unpleasantness with old Sutcliffe. He had left the jacket in plain sight at the top end of the gennel, as near to the shops and the tram terminus as he dare.

  'How does he know it's Darnley’s? It could be any old coat,' said Billy attempting to distance himself from the object.’

  'It's Harris Tweed, old bean. It had the poor fellow's name inside it; Savile Row, I expect. A decent tailor always puts ones name in ones jacket, see.' He whipped his suit jacket from the back of a chair, pulled open the inside pocket and showed Billy the label with his name inside. ‘See. Huntsmans, always do it that way.'

  Billy flicked a glance at it, and bit into a damp digestive. 'What's so special about Harris Tweed?'

  'Rarity value, old bean. It has a very short season, the Harris. Every year the clans gather for one week either side of Burns' night, to trap as many Harrises as they can. They use haggis baited traps made
from old Tam o Shanters. Some families have been using the same traps for hundreds of years. They pickle the Harris skins in single malt whisky, and sell them to the English to make sports coats.'

  Billy shot him a sideways glance, and sniggered. 'You're a nutter!'

  'Suit yourself, old bean. I try to please.'

  Billy helped himself to a second digestive. 'I'm going to see that bloke at the swimming baths.'

  'Which bloke?'

  'Stan, the boiler man.'

  'Stan, Stan the boiler man,' Hadfield cried brightly. 'It sounds like the start of a Limerick.' He began mumbling, unsuccessfully testing potential lines for a Limerick.

  'No, shurrup,' laughed Billy. 'This's serious. I've gotta find out how the floater drowned.'

  'Haargh, good question. Sarah thinks it's all a bit fishy. Her boss took her off the case and signed off the autopsy himself.' He clapped a hand over his mouth and blushed. 'Oh Crickey! I wasn't supposed to say anything. Sarah made me promise.'

  Billy looked at him crossly. 'What's fishy?'

  'I can't say. I promised Sarah. She'll be furious.' He inflated his cheeks and looked around glumly. 'Look, Billy, a chap's word is important, you know. I really didn't mean to tell you. She'll think I've let her down. I'll have to see her and explain.'

  'Just tell her the truth. I'll come with thee if tha likes.'

  Hadfield didn't hear him. 'I'm on night call tonight, but I'll visit her tomorrow. Maybe she'll believe me – face to face.'

  'Take me with you. I'll make her believe you. I'm good at making people believe things. I can look all honest and pathetic and cringing, like this – look.' Billy worked his face, trying different expressions until he thought he'd mastered humility and dejection.

  'Crickey, It's Uriah Heap!’ cried the doctor. ‘She may not believe it, but it'll certainly give her a fright.'

  *

  Cycling into the city from Walkley was a breeze. Billy loved it. It was easy to forget how high above the city centre Walkley was, until one mounted a bicycle. For Billy, the journey began with a break neck descent of Highton Street, down onto South Road, Walkley's main shopping street. Once there he had to keep his wits about him to avoid trapping the bike's wheels in the tramlines, otherwise acrobatically spectacular dismounts were inevitable. Like most tumbles, it was endlessly entertaining to watch, but never quite so enjoyable to perform.

  Beyond Walkley were several switchback slopes of increasing gradient. The real fun started with the plunge over bone shaking cobbles down Barber Road. At the bottom, if ones teeth and wits were still intact, the road levelled off onto an arrow straight stretch, strung out like a tightrope. On one side lay a green park with a fabled deep lake, and on the other, a dramatic tumble of rough tussocks, down into the Don valley. After that came numerous university buildings, another park, and a couple of hospitals.

  Billy inhaled the lemony, vinegarish smell of the Sheffield relish factory as he tore past it, and skirted the grim walls of the York and Lanc's barracks. Seconds later, he skidded to a halt outside the boiler room entrance to the Glossop Road swimming baths. The ride had been invigorating and spectacular. He felt great, and as long as he didn't dwell on the gruelling demands of the return journey, he could stay that way.

  Stan Daniels was frying eggs and bacon on a shovel, balanced in the furnace door. He beamed broadly as he saw Billy. 'Ayup mi owd. Are tha alreight?'

  Billy enviously eyed the sizzling shovelful. 'That looks good.'

  'Aye it is, and it's not thine neither. Keep thee mucky paws off.'

  Billy laughed and flopped onto one of three battered old dining chairs drawn up to the table in Stan's snug little tea break corner. A seriously thumbed travel magazine lay open on the table at a double fold about Route Sixty-Six in the USA. Billy pulled it towards him and idly flipped a page.

  ‘That’s my dream there,’ Stan said, coming over and turning the page back to the double fold. ‘One of these days I’m going to bike right across America.’

  ‘Why not go on t’train? They’ve got buffet cars and tables and everything. I’ve seen ‘em in t’films.’

  ‘It’s not about just going there,’ Stan explained, casting a glance at his frying eggs. ‘It’s about motorcycling; the journey, the experience, the adventure. And I can nearly afford it too, wi a bit more overtime.’

  ‘Are tha rich?’ Billy queried.

  ‘Nah, don’t be daft. Would I be working here if I were?’ He laughed and swatted Billy’s tangle of red hair. ‘I had this old aunty. She died and left me a house. It’s only a little cottage, burrit’s nice and it’s gorra lovely big garden. Since my wife died, two years ago, I’ve been living there rent free and saving my money. Soon I’ll have enough, then it’s bye-bye Sheffield and hello Chicago. I’ll burn up the Mother Road, route Sixty-Six, through Missouri, Kansas and Texas, and all the way out to California and the Pacific Ocean.’ He leafed through the magazine, a faraway look in his eyes.

  'I wanted to ask thee about the dance floor drowning,' Billy said, brutally bursting Stan’s dreamy bubble.

  Stan frowned and sighed tolerantly. 'Huh, I thought as much.' He bustled to the fire door and flipped the sizzling bacon and eggs onto a plate. 'Tha can have all the answers tha wants, but not until I've had me snap. I've been here sin' five this morning tha knows. I'm knackered and I’m starving to death.'

  'Shall I mash?'

  'Aye, good idea, young un. Kettle needs filling.' He nodded at the tap in the corner. Billy filled the kettle his gaze wandering over a rack of steel shelves beside the sink. Bottles, flasks, packets of chemicals, Stan’s crash helmet and goggles, and a weird collection of tools and equipment crowded the untidy shelves.

  Stan sat down and began tucking into his breakfast, or supper, or whatever meal his stomach’s disrupted chronology decreed it was. Billy poured the tea and handed him a mug. 'How did they drown Hepburn with the dance floor in position?'

  'They dint.'

  'What?'

  'It's impossible. You couldn't have drowned anybody under that dance floor.'

  'Why not?'

  'For one very simple reason.'

  'What reason?' Billy was agog.

  'There were no watta in it. I'd emptied it to replace a broken filter cover.'

  Billy gaped at him. 'But – but they said he was floating in the pool.'

  'Aye, but he weren't drowned there.' Stan mopped his plate with a piece of bread. He stuffed his mouth and munched heartily. Billy waited, impatiently watching every chomp. Finally, Stan swallowed, and grinned. He clapped a hand on Billy's shoulder. 'Here, come wi' me. I'll show thee sommat.' Taking his tea mug along, he led him to double doors at the far side of the boiler room and shouldered through them into a vast, windowless space. 'This's our storage area. We keep all sorts down here. There's a lot to running a swimming baths tha knows.'

  He pointed to what looked like a giant pack of cards leaning against a wall. 'See them panels? That's the dance floor. Solid beach, polished like a baby's bum.' Billy was not sure that babies' bums were ever polished, but he got the message – smooth. 'That over there is our electric hoist. We use it for lifting 'em up to the main bath hall.’

  Billy looked up at the ceiling, feeling slightly queasy at the thought of so many tons of water sloshing about above him. 'Blimey, I hope it dunt leak.'

  ‘No, don’t worry, it’s just the Turkish baths above here. The swimming bath goes off in that direction, over solid ground.’ He casually pointed away from the storeroom, then turned to point out a small door at the opposite end of the room. ‘That leads to the cold plunge for the Turkish baths, and that staircase you came down when old Longden were chasing you.’

  Billy gazed around at a jumble of wooden crates and cardboard boxes. There were drums of chemicals, and sacks of salts and powders with strange names. Apart from a weak glow leaking in through the boiler room doors, the only light in the place came down through an access hatch, a couple of meters square, where the electric hoist passed between
floors. 'It's dark in here,' said Billy. ‘How the eck do you manage to find owt?’

  'We're used to it, and everything has its own place.' Stan slapped his big hand on one of the floor panels. 'Contractors erect the dance floor. It takes 'em a short day, or sometimes they do it on a night shift. I drain the pool for 'em. They erect the trestles and lay the floor on top.' He led Billy to where the electric hoist stood at rest. 'Everything has to go up in the right order,' he said with a regal wave over the ranks of floor panels. 'They're all numbered, see. They go up in sequence. It's my oppo, Mike, who usually looks after all this, but he's off sick. He's been off more than two weeks, now. Mind you, them balm-pots in t’office still expect me to do the same work. I've been doing overtime every day since he's been off. I’ve bin here sin’ five this morning, tha knows.'

  Billy peered at the hoist trying to imagine how it might work. It comprised a platform with gated sides and reminded him of the wooden crates in which film directors imprison gorillas in Tarzan movies.

  'They were late gerrin here that morning,' said Stan. Billy guessed he meant the day of the murder. 'They were supposed to be here at five in the morning. I was desperate to get the pool filled early, because that old pump of mine takes hours. Swimming was due to start at seven that night - Monday - for two hours. That only gen us about twelve hours to do everything. First, they have to take the floor up and store it away down here. Nobody can do owt else while they're doing that. It takes 'em about half as long to take it down as it does to install it – about four hours. When they're done, me and Mike start reassembling the changing cubicles round the pool. They work like folding doors on hinges. We swing 'em flat against the wall when it's a dance, and open 'em out again afterwards. It's a lot of fiddling about. The ‘oles never line up for the catches and slide bolts. I hate the bloody job, but at least we can start filling the pool while we do it. That takes ages. 'He held his palms out, as if shadow boxing. 'You see, I like to pump the water in through the filter and treatment vessel, instead of circulating it afterwards.'