Amy's Seaside Secret

by Pam Weaver

  ‘If he hasn’t arrested you, Lettuce,’ Amy called after her, ‘you’re free to go at anytime.’ Every fibre of her body wanted to call out, ‘I know you didn’t do it’, but she couldn’t be seen to be siding with a suspect. Sentimentality had no place in police work. Amy blinked back her tears and swallowed the lump in her throat as she watched her colleagues marching poor Lettuce into the dismal space they called the Interview Room. What she needed was cold, hard facts. She needed proof.

  Amy had been stuck in the office for most of the afternoon doing the filing, but for a large amount of that time she’d been totally distracted. The walls were paper-thin and all afternoon she’d heard Perkins and Cooper in the Interview Room shouting at Lettuce. ‘Tell the truth. You lured your grandmother to the river and then you pushed her in, didn’t you? Come on, admit it. You murdered her for your inheritance, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’ And then Amy had heard the girl crying out, ‘No, I didn’t. I didn’t do it.’ It seemed to have gone on forever. A couple of times Amy had heard the calming voice of the day-matron suggesting that Lettuce needed a rest or a drink of water, but the two men were heartless. At four-thirty a sobbing Lettuce Bottomley had been taken back to the cells as Amy was walking back to the office, having given the sergeant a cup of tea.

  ‘Don’t think this is over,’ DC Cooper snarled at Lettuce as he pushed her roughly towards the cell door. ‘I’ll be back in the morning.’ He turned on his heel, to see Amy standing in the corridor. ‘What are you looking at?’ he challenged. ‘Scares you, does it? Seeing some real police work.’

  ‘No,’ said Amy, tossing her head even though her heart was beginning to beat a lot faster. ‘I just don’t like bullies.’

  Cooper’s lip curled and he came so close she could feel his breath on her face. ‘You interfering bitch,’ he said, poking her in the chest. ‘How dare you tell me my job? How long have you been in that uniform? Five bloody minutes, and you act like you’re the chief constable?’

  Amy could feel tears smarting in her eyes, but she refused to lower them or back down.

  Cooper turned to go, but not before he had squeezed her right breast. ‘Go and make yourself useful and get me some tea.’

  Amy’s breast hurt, but she didn’t move. She wasn’t going to let him see the effect he had on her. What an appalling man Cooper was. He was nothing short of an arrogant and vicious bully. Was this really how they carried on now in London? Expressionless, she walked back to the small kitchen area to make the tea. As she re-boiled the kettle, she had a cry and rubbed her sore breast. Then she took Cooper his tea.

  ‘Good girl,’ he said as she put it on the desk. Amy didn’t dignify his remark with an answer.

  On the way back she was so relieved when she saw Liz coming through the door to begin her night-shift. ‘Ladies’ loo,’ she said. ‘Now!’

  They closed the door of the tiny lavatory and Amy turned on the tap. As quickly as she could, she gave Liz an account of Lettuce’s interrogation and her general state. ‘I did hear the other matron trying to calm things, but they took no notice.’

  ‘Do you think Lettuce did it?’ asked Liz.

  ‘No,’ said Amy, ‘but I think they’re trying to get her to a place where she’d confess to killing the Pope, if it made them stop. We’ve got to help her.’

  ‘I get the feeling this is a bit unethical,’ said Liz.

  ‘It probably is,’ Amy agreed, ‘but I can’t bear to see an injustice done.’

  They heard a noise outside the door.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Amy whispered. She ran to the cubical and pulled the chain, and at the same time Liz put her hands under the running tap. The door burst open and Amy feigned surprise as DC Cooper came into the room. ‘This is the ladies’ toilet,’ she said, twisting her skirt as if she’d only just pulled it down.

  He stared at them with a solemn expression. ‘What are you two up to in here?’

  Amy frowned indignantly. ‘Do you need me to explain the reasons why women go to the toilet, Detective?’ she said.

  He raised his arm as if to strike her. Amy stepped back and Liz gasped in horror. Putting his arm down, Cooper stuck his face into hers and said, ‘If you know what’s good for you, young lady, you’ll keep out of my way.’

  He left and the door swung shut. Amy and Liz looked at each other helplessly. They didn’t need to say anything, for both of them knew they were dealing with a very dangerous man.

  Half an hour later Amy glanced at her wristwatch. She was getting ready to go off-duty when PC Perkins brought a pile of folders into her office to be filed. As he put them onto the desk, he placed them too near the edge and they all fell on the floor.

  ‘Whoops!’ he said with a half grin. ‘Sorry.’ And Amy was left with a jumble of papers to pick up.

  A couple of months ago it would have taken her the best part of an hour to read each one and sort them into the correct folder, but with her ‘symbol’ system in practice, it only took about fifteen minutes. When she had first arrived at Thurloe House, Sergeant Goble was in the habit of putting pieces of paper any-old-where, so Amy put a small symbol on the front of the folder and the same symbol on each sheet of paper inside. It had been laborious to get the system underway, but now it simplified matters no end. A triangle meant the paper went into the file belonging to James Turner, and a star sign belonged in Sylvia Patterson’s file. When she ran out of symbols, Amy started using numbers. She worked quickly and methodically until at last the folders were back together. As soon as the last one was in the filing cabinet, she hurried to the Scout hut for her training session – feeling, for the first time since she’d come to Worthing, glad to be out of the station.

  To her surprise, when she arrived the others had only just got started.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Amy.

  Mr Dixon grinned. ‘You and everyone else.’

  Amy was puzzled until he said, ‘It looks as if there’s a conspiracy going on.’ He went on to explain that just before she left work, his wife had found a delivery of groceries that hadn’t been put away, while Molly had been asked to clean a floor in the cells. Apparently someone had been sick in there last night and the sergeant had ‘forgotten’ all about it. They were joined by a couple of other girls who worked in the police station and, funnily enough, they’d been delayed in getting away tonight as well. Amy had a shrewd idea who was behind it.

  ‘I reckon the Ministry of Dirty Tricks has a hand in all this,’ Mr Dixon went on, ‘but never mind, we’ll still put in the hour.’

  As part of the training, they went on a run around Steyne Gardens. Mr Dixon was pleased with their progress and reminded everyone that the next day was their rest day, and that they would all meet up for a swim for the next session. ‘If you’ll take my advice,’ he said, ‘in view of tonight’s problems, you’ll keep our plans to yourselves.’

  On her way out, Amy couldn’t resist another look at the drawing of the tramp.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Mr Dixon, coming up behind her. ‘I wish I knew someone in the art world. That boy has talent.’

  Amy nodded in agreement. ‘Tell me about the artist.’

  ‘Wally Hills?’ said Mr Dixon, turning off some of the lights before opening the blackout curtain. ‘His father is a ne’er-do-well, but Wally could go places.’ He leaned forward. ‘Just look at that detail,’ he said admiringly, as he pointed at the cuffs of the tramp’s coat. ‘That almost looks like a cut.’

  Amy moved in closer. Mr Dixon was right. That frayed edging did look suspicious – almost as if it had been deliberately cut. And then she noticed the tramp’s hands . . .

  ‘Ready to go?’ said Mr Dixon, his hand hovering over the last remaining light switch.

  Amy nodded and walked out into the night, deep in thought. As luck would have it, at the end of North Street she spotted the tramp coming towards her. He was easily recognizable from Wally’s picture, even down to his shoes, covered in newspaper and tied with string. He was shuffling along, obvi
ously finding it difficult to move. Amy’s heart went out to him. The poor man probably had bad feet, or even a touch of arthritis. It did nobody any good sleeping rough, especially during the winter months. She could only hope that he knew where to get a plate of warm soup or some bread and cheese, and that he had somewhere to sleep. He didn’t appear to be carrying anything, until she caught sight of something he was hugging to his chest. A small bundle. The boys from Ivy Arch had said he carried something all wrapped up, but where was he off to?

  Keeping a safe distance between them, Amy followed him. A car and a lorry prevented her from running across the road, so that the tramp was way in front of her by the time they were both on the same side of North Street. A thought crossed her mind. Looking at the bundle, she could see that he couldn’t fit much in it, but he might be able to hide some tools from the allotments, and some washing from the clothes line inside. He’d probably drunk the milk from the doorstep. Could this be the petty thief?

  There were no lights, but all at once he seemed to be in an awful hurry. Amy followed on until the tramp turned into Station Approach. When she got there, she had to wait a second or two while a double-decker bus negotiated the sharp bend and trundled over the bridge; and when she ran after him again, she was almost hit by a car that was driving at speed in the same direction as the bus. She passed the big Victorian houses with their long front gardens and reached the station itself. The tramp was nowhere to be seen. Amy looked around wildly. The ticket collector let her onto the platform when she showed him her identity card, and Amy walked right along the full length of it, but it was as if the tramp had vanished into thin air.

  The London train was coming in on the other platform. Maybe he was on the other side. Amy dashed down the steps and into the underpass, then up the other side, two steps at a time. She reached the platform as the London-bound train rumbled into the station. Amy scoured the people waiting to board the train, but where was the tramp? Would he have enough money for a ticket for the train anyway? The carriage doors opened and several people got onto the train: a couple of soldiers heading back from leave (Amy could tell by the tearful goodbyes from the women who waited with them), a railway worker, a businessman, several young people who were obviously on a night out, and a lady in a tweed coat. Amy heard the guard’s whistle and the last of the doors slammed shut.

  The train moved off. Amy walked to the waiting room. There was a fire in there. Maybe the tramp slept there at night. The room was empty. Where on earth could he be? He’d definitely come into the station.

  The men’s toilets! That’s where he was. She grabbed a porter and, flashing her identity card again, made him go into the gents’ toilets on the London platform.

  ‘No one in there, Miss,’ he said, coming out. Amy left him lifting his cap and scratching his head, as she dashed back down the underpass. The ticket collector on platform one was just as helpful, but both the gents’ toilets and the general waiting room were empty.

  ‘You did see a tramp come into the station, didn’t you?’ she said desperately, but the ticket collector just gave her a blank stare.

  Chapter 4

  Wally pulled his far-too-small jacket as tight as he could around his body and shivered. He was huddled in the back of a flatbed lorry somewhere in the countryside. His father and his father’s best mate, Jim Dare, were in the warm, inside the cab. Not only was it perishing cold on the flatbed, but it was also the middle of the night and Wally hadn’t a clue where they were going. When he’d asked his father, Eddie had euphemistically told him they were ‘going on a job’, but what sort of job was done in almost total darkness? It didn’t feel right and Wally worried that it might not be legal.

  When the lorry came to a halt, they were outside a church. Beyond the lychgate the graveyard, lit only by moonlight, was a bit spooky, but for some reason it looked familiar.

  His father climbed out of the cab. ‘Keep quiet, son,’ he said in hushed tones. ‘We don’t want to scare the horses.’ Wally looked around but couldn’t see any.

  Once he was the other side of the lychgate, Wally knew where he was: St Mary’s, Clymping. This was the place where Nanny and Granddad used to bring him to Sunday school when he was a little boy. Nanny and Granddad were both dead now, carried off by the flu about three Christmases ago, and Wally still missed them. Being here brought back memories of Nanny’s cosy kitchen, and the smell of mutton stew and dumplings, and long walks with Granddad and his old mutt, Whiskey, over the fields. He and his mum came here a lot when he was a child and Dad was in prison. As soon as Eddie got out, the visits stopped. Granddad didn’t get on with Wally’s father.

  Eddie was carrying a tool bag and Jim was carrying a ladder as they walked up the path. Neither man spoke, but they were both a bit nervy. Jim stood the ladder against the building by an arched doorway, and Eddie motioned Wally to go up.

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Lead,’ said Eddie. ‘It’s all round the edge of that arch, see?’

  Wally stood his ground. ‘You’re stealing it, aren’t you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said his father. ‘The vicar asked me and Jim to take it away. It all wants replacing, see? They’ve got a new lot on order.’

  ‘Then why can’t we do it in daylight?’ said Wally. ‘Why come here in the dead of night?’

  Jim put his hands in his pockets and began scuffing his foot on the gravel.

  ‘Because . . .’ Eddie began, ‘people might get upset. They’re a funny lot, these church-goers. They don’t like change. The Rev. said if we took it, we’d be doing him a favour.’

  Wally wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Look, son, he’s doing it for the war effort,’ said Eddie confidentially. ‘It’s for our brave boys.’

  Reluctantly Wally began to climb the ladder. The lead stood out all the way round the edge of the arch. It looked sound enough. He couldn’t see why it should have to come off, but if it was for the war effort . . . It was solid-looking, but it was malleable and before long he had uncurled some. It weighed a ton and he wished he had thick gloves, so that it didn’t chafe his frozen fingers. He could only manage to take a bit at a time. Jim stood on the ladder to receive the pieces as Wally cut them, and passed them to his father, who piled them next to a gravestone.

  Every now and then Eddie would say, ‘Careful now, son’ or ‘Take it steady. We don’t want you having an accident, do we?’

  It made Wally feel good. For years he’d longed for his father’s approval, but it never came. It pleased him to hear the concern in Eddie’s voice. He didn’t want Wally to stop and do himself a mischief. For once his mum was wrong about his father. He really did care about him.

  They worked their way around the whole arch and took some of the flashing, which sealed the joint between the wall and the roof of the porchway, as well. After about an hour, Eddie motioned Wally to come down and the three of them carried the lead to the flatbed lorry.

  ‘This is good stuff,’ said Eddie as the lorry filled. ‘We should get a fair wedge for it. Good job you took it steady.’

  His words hit Wally like a sledgehammer. His father hadn’t been worrying about him at all. He wasn’t bothered about his safety. He’d only been concerned not to damage the lead! Hurt and anger flared in Wally’s chest.

  ‘You lied!’ he cried. ‘We don’t have permission to do this. You’re pinching it.’

  ‘And so are you,’ Eddie hissed, ‘so keep your voice down.’

  ‘I should have known better,’ Wally yelled. ‘Granddad was right. You’re rotten through and through.’

  He didn’t see the blow coming, but he fell backwards with the force of it. His nose felt as if it had exploded and he could already taste the blood in his mouth. When he hit the ground, his father kicked him several times until Jim pulled him off.

  ‘That’s enough, Ed,’ Jim said urgently. ‘Let’s get out of here, before all this shouting rouses people from their beds.’

  Wounded and in pain, Wally moan
ed. Jim went to help him up.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ he heard his father say. ‘Leave him.’

  ‘But this is Clymping,’ Jim said. ‘The kid’ll have to walk ten miles or more to get back to Worthing. He’s in no fit state.’

  Eddie came towards Wally, who waited for another kick. ‘Do you hear that, you cissy?’ his father snarled. ‘Ten miles.’ He laughed sardonically. ‘You should be back for breakfast, if you get a move on.’

  Jim tried to help Wally up, but Eddie pushed him away. Leaning over his son, he said, ‘And if you breathe a word of this to anyone, your mother gets a kicking – understand?’

  Wally nodded miserably and, a few minutes later, he heard the lorry driving off.

  Chapter 5

  ‘And now somebody has nicked the candlesticks from St Andrew’s,’ said Sergeant Goble, slamming the telephone receiver down. He sat at his desk, chewing the end of his pencil. ‘I don’t know what the bleeding world is coming to. Stealing from a church in broad daylight? Whatever next!’

  Amy was struggling to remember where St Andrew’s was. Worthing was a town with many churches. Some said that, including the small assemblies, there were upwards of forty. St Paul’s in Chapel Road, Holy Trinity in Shelley Road . . . St Andrew’s must be the one in Grosvenor Road. No, that was Christ Church. ‘Do you want me to go over there, Sarge?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re not the bloody detective, ’Obbs,’ he said peevishly.

  Amy felt her cheeks flush and she lowered her eyes. ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  He put the pencil down, shuffled some papers on his desk and glanced up at the clock. It was three-thirty and, like Amy, he was off-duty at four. The silence between them grew.

  ‘Were they valuable, sir?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘They’ve been there for a couple of hundred years, so they probably are,’ he said grudgingly. He sighed. ‘I suppose I should ask Perkins and Cooper to go.’