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Chapter Twenty-Five
The narrow door to Walkley’s police box swung gently on its hinges in a light summer breeze. Morning sunlight streamed into the cramped space finding the odd cobweb and highlighting dusty streaks on the built in desk top. PC Needham hunched over a police logbook, carefully entering his report. Billy was sitting on the threshold leaning against the door jam and reading the officer’s newspaper.
‘They make us print everything in this damn book now,’ Constable Needham grumbled. ‘It’s Handley’s fault. His bloody writing’s so bad he can’t even read it himself. So now the bloody sergeant treats us all like idiots.’ He paused his writing and glanced down at Billy. ‘Here, gerrof the floor and gimme back my paper, your messing it up.’
‘How much does a sergeant get paid?’ Billy asked folding and smoothing out the newspaper.
‘Why? What peerless gobbet are you about to spring this time?’
‘I was wondering how a police sergeant can afford a big posh house up Ranmoor. That’s where Flood lives.’
‘He gets paid loads. He’s a chief superintendent.’
‘Burree were only a sergeant when he bought that massive palace of his. How did he get the dosh for it back then?’
John Needham eyed him flatly. ‘Massive palace, eh? Go on then, tell me, o wise and gingery freckled one.’
Billy thumped him playfully on the leg and stood up. ‘I don’t know, but just think about this; Flood was sent into the tunnels where the bank was broken open by the bomb. If he’d really searched the tunnels properly, like he was supposed to, he must have seen Mary Scott’s body. He couldn’t miss it! But we know he didn’t say owt about it. It wasn't in his report and they dint find her until a fireman went in a week later. He also said he dint find Longden or the professor and the group that went the other way when Walter Mebbey escaped.’
‘Yeah, that’s right, so what?’
Billy looked perplexed. ‘Well, he was sent in specially to find ‘em. How come he didn’t? How could he have missed ‘em if he was really searching and not doing sommat else at the time?’
‘What else?’
I don’t know – robbing a bank, maybe?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘He’d been told to search the tunnels, and yet he doesn’t find Mary’s body, and he doesn't find Longden and the others, and he doesn't even find how they got out. So if he wasn’t searching the tunnels, what was he doing?’
‘I don’t know. Playing cards with Spring Heeled Jack?’ John quipped offhandedly. ‘I don’t see the point you’re making.’
‘Three months later he buys a big posh house, but he’s only a sergeant. Where did the dosh come from?’
‘Are you saying it was him who robbed the bank?’
‘You told me the cop’s report said the bomb smashed open three safety deposit boxes. We know that Darnley stole the Pagez Cypher from one of ‘em. All three box owners, including the one Darnley robbed, told the coppers nowt of value was stolen. Well, why did they bother having a box if they had nowt to put in it? That’s daft, and it’s also very hard to believe. So, what really was stolen? And who nicked it? Was it Flood or was it the others?’
John Needham pouted and raised an eyebrow. ‘We don’t know, and we can’t make people report stuff stolen if they don’t want to.’
‘Yeah, but worrif Flood stole sommat that night? Worrif he found a stash of dosh in one of them boxes and realised it was illegal proceeds, or whatever you call it? He could fill his pockets and nobody would ever know. Then, to make sure the tunnels don’t become a crime scene with lots of other coppers running about in them, he pretends not to see Mary’s body and leaves her to rot in the dark.’
Needham looked at Billy and laughed softly, shaking his head. ‘Illegal proceeds – eh? Have you swallowed a dictionary?’
‘Int that what you call it when money is from a robbery or some swindle? I’m just saying, how could he suddenly afford to buy a big house just after he’d been in them tunnels?’
John chuckled softly. ‘He could have used his wife’s money. She’s loaded. Her father died in 1940 and left her a mint.’ He patted Billy on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, Billy, it was a good idea. I had the same thoughts myself. That's why I asked my pal Terry Wooffit to check it out for me.’ Billy’s shoulders slumped. ‘Keep plugging away, lad. We’ll get there, eventually.’
‘It doesn’t change the fact that he lied about not finding Mary’s body. Why did he do that? He must have seen her. The firemen did. And why was there no investigation or ort – ort – autopsy? And don’t forget this …’ he had Needham backing away against the police box wall, ‘Longden was a pathologist. Doesn’t that make you wonder about him and Flood. Worrif Flood made Longden cover her death up? Worrif he knew Longden had stolen sommat from the boxes and he blackmailed him into covering her death up and making it seem like she was just another victim of the bombing?’
‘Blimey Billy, you’ve made me bust my pencil.’
‘It’s not funny,’ Billy said squeezing back tears. He wiped them away quickly and coughed, trying to hide them.
John Needham swallowed the emotion rising in his throat. He understood the lad’s passion and concern and was moved by it. ‘Look Billy, I’ll try to fix a meeting with that pal of mine, D.C. Wooffit. I know he’s pretty fed up with it all. He’s been getting the run around from Fletcher, his boss in CID. Flood and Fletcher are as tight as ticks. Terry wouldn’t say so straight out, but I know he thinks something iffy is going on.’
Billy had composed himself. ‘It’s Mary I feel sorry about most,’ he said. ‘I never thought much of it until Wy said about her missing Christmases, and birthdays and stuff for ten years while her killer goes on enjoying life.’
‘I know son,’ John croaked. ‘What was she – about forty-five? She had plenty of time left. Who knows what she might have done with it, and how it could have affected other people. I often think that about my little brother - Eddie. When he died, I lost more than a brother. I lost a whole lifetime of seeing everything he could have done with his life and mine too. Death is a thief, Billy, and murder is its vilest creature.’
*
It was half past three on Wednesday afternoon. The shops on South Road were enjoying a busy period. Tomorrow would be early closing day, and by this time in the week any meat and bone left from Sunday dinner had been stewed, pie crusted and “souped” to oblivion. Shoppers dashed from one side of the street to the other assembling fresh ingredients for their midweek evening meal; tea, as most folk called it, or supper if you were older, but never dinner, unless you held middle class pretensions. Butchers laid out liver, heart, cowheel, tripe and oxtail on their slabs. They would have to go in their back stores for chops or chump for the more well to do.
Sutcliffe grabbed Billy and yanked him roughly into a passage between two shops. ‘Has tha said owt?’ the old man snarled tightening his grip on Billy’s wrists, making him wince with pain.
‘No, I never.’
‘They asked me about that bloody jacket. What did tha tell ‘em?’
‘I dint say nowt. They already knew thar’d gorrit and tried to sell it to me mam. But I never said nowt about it. Burrif tha dunt let go o’ me wrists I’ll tell ‘em everything, and I’ll get me dad on to thee.’
Sutcliffe relaxed his grip a little. ‘Don’t try threatening me, lad. I’ve flattened blokes twice as big as thee dad. I’m not scared o’ nobody.’ He looked hard into Billy’s eyes and curled his lip to underline the point. ‘I know thaz been talking to t’coppers. I’ve seen thee wi’ that new bloke, Needham. What’s tha been telling ‘im?’
‘Nowt. I’m norra snitch.’
‘They said I’d nicked it from a car.’ The old man’s look of shocked indignation was hardly convincing.
‘Well tha did,’ said Billy, incredulous. ‘Everybody knows it were thee. You’re lucky they aren’t saying that you killed him.’
‘I never killed nobody.’
Sutcliffe preened, his wild eyes flicking around.
‘I know you didn’t, but you were there, and you did steal the victim’s jacket from a car parked near the murder site. Have you any idea how guilty that makes thee look? I’m amazed they haven’t been grilling thee over hot coals ever since it happened.’
‘Oy! Wharra tha doing to that lad?’ Walter Mebbey’s voice echoed angrily down the passage. ‘Lerrim go or I’ll spread thee nose across thee face.’
Sutcliffe released Billy and swung round to face Walter, who squared up to him boldly, his fists circling menacingly before him. Sutcliffe backed away a couple of steps and half-heartedly raised his own fists, clearly lacking Walter’s determination and confidence. ‘Thee keep thee nose out,’ he told Walter. ‘This is between me and him.’
‘No it int,’ Walter argued calmly. ‘He’s my mate, and if tha touches him, I’ll peel thee apart like an orange.’
Sutcliffe needed no convincing. He turned and scurried down the passage into the back yard behind the shops. Billy was not sure how he would get out, but at least he was gone. ‘Good ‘en, Walter. Thanks.’
‘Ah he’s nowt. I could take ‘im easy,’ said Walter, looking relieved nevertheless. ‘I’ve been looking for thee, Billy. I’ve got an address for another woman who were a friend of Mary Scott’s. She’s a cleaner at the museum like Mary used to be. I thought you might want to talk to her an’ all.’ He handed Billy a crumpled slip of paper. ‘How’s it going? Are you any nearer to solving it yet?’
Billy blew out his cheeks in a sigh. He leaned back against the passage wall. ‘Well, we’re sure Longden knew about that old letter that was pinched, but we can’t say if he and Darnley both stole it.’ They left the gloomy passage and walked out onto South Road in the bright, afternoon sunlight. Billy continued, ‘Longden drove the professor to Man’s Head after he found some sort of clue at the old Turret House at Manor Castle. We’re not sure what the clue was, but we know for definite that him and Darnley went to Man’s Head after he found it. They were seen in the pub there. We know they had a row and that Longden drove off and left the professor on his own. His jacket was nicked from the car there. Old Sutcliffe stole it. He thinks I told the coppers, burra dint.’
‘Do you still think the professor drowned the solicitor, what’s his name – Hepburn?’
‘Definitely. He had a paint stain on his coat that came from the woodwork they use under the dance floor to hold it up. Both men were regulars at the Turkish bath. The cops have gorra witness who saw Darnley and Longden arguing in the hot room. One of the other bathers told them to keep the noise down, so they went into the cold room to avoid disturbing the others. That’s where Hepburn was killed. I'm sure any honest pathologist could show that the water in his lungs came from the cold pool in that room. From what I can make out, it looks like he fell and bashed his head, and then was drowned while he was unconscious – he never struggled, you see.’
‘Did anybody see it happen?’
‘No, the cold room was closed to the public that day. They were fixing the tiles in there. But the great thing is, it’s dead easy to get from there into the store room where they keep the dance floor panels. Darnley could easily have dragged him through and hidden him under the timbers. That’s how he got the paint on his jacket.’
‘But you said he was in the Turkish bath. He wouldn’t have been wearing a jacket.’
‘No, not when he hid the body the first time, but what about the following day when he crept back to hide it in the swimming pool under the dance floor?’
Old Walter straightened his shoulders and gave Billy a sideways grin. ‘Huh, you're clever little bugger, Billy Perks,’ he said laughing softly. ‘Tha makes it sound reight enough, but I'm no detective. It’d be easy for anybody to convince me that the moon’s made o’ rag cheese. What I want to know is who killed Mary, and why was it covered up?’
‘Me too, Walter, but no matter what I do, it keeps coming back to the same dead end.’
‘Hello, Billy. How are you?’ It was Doctor Clarissa Fulton-Howard. Walter gaped at her, whipped off his trilby hat and stood almost to attention as he watched her. She had been striding along South Road, her crocodile skin medical bag in her hand, a dead fox around her shoulders. Billy wasn’t sure how many other animals had died to dress her that day, but he didn’t like it much. ‘I’ve been hoping I might see you,’ she announced, as if addressing the whole of South Road. ‘I hope you’ve not been pestering them at the hospital again since we last spoke?’
‘I haven’t been to the hospital.’
‘Good boy. Is this your grandfather?’
‘No, It’s Mister Mebbey. He’s a weightlifter,’ said Billy.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Walter said bowing briskly, giving her a quick flash of his bald head.
Clarissa managed to look right through him and turned to Billy. ‘How are your enquiries? Have you found the killer yet?’
Her snooty attitude towards Walter annoyed Billy and so he made sure his reply placed him at the centre of their conversation. ‘No, but Mister Mebbey here, has been helping me,’ he said pointing to Walter like a prize goose. ‘He knew Professor Darnley.’ Walter did not react. Instead, he continued to eye Clarissa curiously. Billy ploughed on, ‘He was trapped in the tunnels with the Professor when the Marples was bombed.’
Clarissa looked shocked on hearing this. The colour drained from her face. She gaped at Walter and stepped back unsteadily, studying his face. Without a word, she turned abruptly and almost fled along the busy pavement, disappearing into the crowding shoppers.
Walter and Billy watched her go. Walter shrugged with comic incredulity. ‘What was all that about?’ he said. ‘Sommat flew up her pipes.’
The pair walked along through the distracted, intense shoppers. Walter veered purposefully towards a pork shop window. Billy carried on, unaware he had lost his companion. He chatted away happily to the amusement of passers-by until he realised he was alone. He turned to see Walter beckoning him back to his side. ‘Ayup sithee, look at them.’ He was pointing to a tray of chitterlings. ‘Don’t they look champion? Hang on here a minute, I’ll just get me sen some.’
Chitterlings were not a favourite with Billy, though he did eat them, usually cold with salt, pepper and vinegar on them. But, if his mam was going to feed him uncooked meat with vinegar on it, he preferred tripe. It was obvious from Walter’s beaming face that he did not.
Cheerfully tucking his parcel of chitterlings under his arm, Walter fell into step with Billy and they continued along South Road.
‘I went to see the woman you told me about, Missis Snape,’ Billy said. ‘She told me Mary Scott was a bit straight laced, a chapel woman. She said she was too stiff and starchy for some people. Not much fun. Apparently, she didn’t like pubs. She only went to the Marples’ do because it was a special work’s outing – for Christmas.’
‘Poor lass. First time she goes to a pub, and it gets bombed.’ Walter stopped at the tram stop and leaned on its iron pole. ‘I hope you get sommat a bit more useful from this other woman.’ He patted his pockets as if he’d lost something. ‘I've gen you t'address didn’t I?’
Billy waved the slip of paper at him. ‘Yeah, I’ll see her tomorrow. We’re running out of time. I’ve got to wrap this case up before we start school again.’
A tramcar rattled into view. ‘You sounded a bit American then,’ Walter said, grinning.
Billy blushed and stepped back as the tram slid up to the stop. Walter boarded it with a friendly nod. ‘Tell us how tha gets on. So long, Billy.’
For a second or two he watched the tram pull away and head for the city, then crossed the road and made his way to the bottom of his own street. As he turned the corner, he saw Sergeant Lackey sitting in a police car a few yards up the street. The driver’s door opened immediately. Lackey clambered out. ‘Hey Perks! I’ve been waiting for you. Come here.’
‘You’ll have to speak to my parents. I’ve been told not to talk to you.’
‘Oh really, well we’d better go and see your mother then. It’s that house there int it, the one wi’ the mucky curtains.’ He pointed up the street to Billy’s house.
‘They’re not mucky. There’s nobody in. My mam works until four. She won’t be home until half past.’
‘Where’s your father? Drunk in a boozer I suppose.’
‘He’s at work - and he dunt drink except at Christmas and cup final day.’
Lackey had slowly drawn closer, and was now towering over Billy, his manner sneering and threatening. ‘Stay away from that hospital, Perks. People don’t want smelly kids interrupting their work and getting in the way. Keep out of it. And don’t let me hear that you’ve been pestering people at the Manor Lodge again either. We’re on to you, Perks. Every step you take goes in my book. You know what Mister Flood told you. He said to keep your nose out of police business. If you don’t, me and you will be …’ He stopped suddenly at the approach of a small man wearing housepainter’s white overalls, spattered with the trophies of years of paint jobs.
‘Are tha alreight Billy?’ It was Mister Thackery, the Perk’s next-door neighbour. ‘What’s up, officer? His dad’s still at work.’ Thackery approached rapidly on short bandy legs. His questioning frown making it clear that the sergeant would have to explain himself.
‘Nothing for you to worry your sen about, sir,’ Lackey said stepping back from Billy.
‘Well, he can come wi’ me now. I don’t think you need to shove him about any more.’ He waved Billy to his side and stood pugnaciously between him and Lackey, his thin, sloping shoulders barring the sergeant from reaching the lad.
‘And what might your name be, sir?’ Sergeant Lackey asked coldly.
‘Don’t worry, Sergeant,’ Mister Thackery replied calmly. ‘I won’t be complaining to Councillor Morrison and the Watch committee. I’m sure you meant well.’
Lackey looked about perplexed. He moved stiffly to the police car door, climbed in and drove off, careful to avoid looking at Mister Thackery and Billy watching him from the pavement.
Dance Floor Drowning Page 25
