‘Hang on one ruddy minute – you still haven’t told me why the police are followin’ you.’
There’s a steady drip somewhere nearby like a quiet heartbeat. ‘Because they’re on the lookout for Frank and they think I might lead ’em to him.’
‘Why in God’s name are they lookin’ for Frank?’ Dot undoes a few buttons then stops. ‘And where the hell are you goin’ while I’m waltzin’ around pretendin’ to be you?’
Feeling exposed in her smalls, Grace walks towards her. ‘Never mind all that, we need to hurry – I promise I’ll explain later. Please, Dot – I need you to trust me. I swear to you I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Dot’s brown eyes stare at her, she sees herself reflected in those dark pupils. ‘Please, Dotty, I really need your help.’
The girl shrugs her shoulders. ‘Never could say no when you look at me like that.’
Grace gives her a hug. ‘Here – you’ll need my scarf on to hide yer hair. I’ve brought a different one for me.’
Dot shrugs off her blouse and begins to unbutton her skirt. ‘Supposin’ I go off to the park, what then?’
‘Then you just feed the birds or summat. After that, like I said, you can go home.’
She hands her clothes over. ‘But I haven’t got anythin’ to feed the ruddy birds with.’
‘Then just go for a bit of a stroll round. It don’t matter where you go or what the ’ell you do.’ Grace stands back to admire the transformation. ‘That’s it – now the sunglasses. Perfect.’
‘Well – if you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ Despite her smile, Flo looks worse than the last time she’d seen her. The poor woman can’t be more than thirty-five but for all her money and that bleached-blonde hair, her face could be a good ten years older. Careworn she’d describe her as, like all the fun’s been sucked out of her. The woman’s whole body looks pinched in – in fact she could do with putting on some weight.
‘I’m not sure where he is,’ Flo says through lips too red for such pale skin. ‘Think he might be in the garden; come on through.’
She herself might look a bit of a sight, dressed as she is in Dot’s old working clothes and a scarf tying her hair up like some washerwoman.
‘You remember our Pete and little Eric.’ The light catches on Flo’s gold bracelet.
Their two sons have grown lanky and awkward. The older lad’s hair’s grown a lot darker while his little brother’s almost unnaturally fair. Clearly not remembering her, the boys smile shyly at her but hardly look up from their game.
‘Pete, for goodness’ sake put that wretched tortoise on the floor. He’s not happy on that car – you can see that for yourself.’
They walk past a formal dining room that looks so starchy you’d never feel comfortable in it; maybe that was the point. ‘How’s Elsie these days?’ Flo asks.
‘Mum was in a terrible state a few weeks back.’
‘Really?’
‘Turned out to be a bad case of pneumonia. I had to go down to Brighton to look after her. Don’t worry, she’s much better now, thank the Lord.’
It’s clear no one’s told Flo about Dennis. This far out, she probably doesn’t get to pick up the gossip that’s always flying round the East End.
Grace decides not to say anything. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Mum’s almost back to her old self, I’d say.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. Do give Elsie my love when you see ’er next.’ Flo opens the glazed back door. ‘Here we are.’ Grace has only seen gardens this big in magazines. ‘He’s over there – them flamin’ roses are my Jackie’s pride and joy. If it’s not the greenfly he’s worryin’ about, it’s the black spot and then there’s all sorts of funguses. He can’t afford to leave ’em alone for a minute.’
They walk over the unnaturally green lawn towards the flowerbed. Grace’s short heels keep sinking into the damp grass. ‘Can I fetch you a cup of tea?’
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘D’you know I’d love a cuppa right now, Flo.’
‘Jackie!’ Her husband turns round. ‘You remember Elsie Smith’s girl Grace? She says she wants to talk to you about summat.’
His secateurs are poised over the withered head of a rose. ‘Grace,’ he says, ‘well I never, this is a surprise.’
Flo holds her ground, looks from one of them to the other.
‘You bein’ a man of the world, Jack, I thought you might be able to give me some business advice,’ she says. ‘’Spect you remember the Eight Bells – our pub. We was doing very nicely until recently, but now, I have to admit, business isn’t what it was. With you being such a successful businessman, I thought I’d come and ask you for some tips.’
‘Well, if you’re talkin’ business I’ll leave the both of you to it,’ Flo says. ‘Any sugar, Grace?’
‘No thanks – girl has to watch her figure.’ She smiles. ‘Drop of milk would be good, if you’ve got it.’
Flo winks at her husband. ‘I dare say she’s sweet enough.’
‘Yes, I dare say she is,’ Jack Dawson says, chopping a withered flower head clean off.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
With his wife well out of earshot, Jack’s expression drops. ‘Got to hand it to you, Grace, it must have taken some bottle for you to come here to my home like this; an’ in broad daylight.’ He snips three more flower heads off; the last one barely out of bud. The petals fall at her feet. ‘If you were a bloke, I’d reckon you’ve got some balls.’
‘Take that as a compliment, shall I?’
‘Having come all this way to see me – and I do hope you’re not trailin’ the Old Bill behind you – you’d better say what it is you came here to say. Spit it out, gal.’
A smile tugs at the sides of his mouth. ‘Oh – hold up.’ His dark eyes narrow, the pupils are pinpricks in the sunlight. ‘Do I detect a touch of hesitation? You haven’t thought this through very well, have ya?’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? Dearie me, little Gretchen Schmidt, have you got some lessons to learn.’
He turns away to cut at a white-headed rose. ‘This one’s called Queen of the Snow – lovely shaped flower and such a delicate perfume. Bouquet’s the fancy word for it. As you can see, this here’s the last one to flower. This whole bush has had its first flush of blooms – they’re always the best.’
Dawson holds the rose right up under her nose; the sweet stench of it turns her stomach. ‘If I want it to flower again, I have to cut it back hard.’ He demonstrates by snipping off some rosehips. ‘You could say it’s for its own good.’
Grace stands firm. ‘I came to talk to you about Dennis.’ She takes a deep breath – in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I want to know who it was went an’ murdered ’im. I’ve bin told you or some of your associates might have bin behind it.’
‘Someone’s been feedin’ you a load of porkers, sweetheart.’ He steps closer, holds his secateurs inches from her chin. ‘That husband of yours was a prize bloody prat, that’s for sure, but why the hell would I want him dead? He was a good customer of ours; liked his nags, did Dennis.’
Grace wants to step back but her heels are stuck fast. ‘You’ve got a cheek callin’ him a good a customer when you lot have bin bleedin’ him dry for years.’
‘I’d say our Dicer was very lenient when it came to his debts. When all’s said and done, no bugger forces a man to gamble. Just like nobody forces him to go peddlin’ his hooch where he has no business to.’
She pulls one heel free and then the other. ‘Is that what it was then – they was steppin’ on your shoes with their dodgy whisky? Couldn’t you have just warned Dennis – told him to stop?’
‘I believe the whole lot of them had been given a warnin’ already. They chose to ignore it.’
With surprising gentleness, he leans forward to lay the white rose on the wooden table next to them; almost a gesture you might make at a graveside.
‘See, what you have to realise, darlin’,’ he says, ‘is that the secret of good business is delegation. A
nd when you delegate, stands to reason your employees have to be given a bit of leeway to act as they see fit.’
Grace notices how he’d glanced over her shoulder back towards the house. She can hear the rattle of a tea tray getting closer. Dawson waves to his wife. ‘I can’t be held responsible if individual members of my workforce occasionally overstep the mark.’
‘Here we are then,’ Flo says. ‘I’ll pop this down here, shall I?’
‘Thanks, darlin’.’ He picks up the rose and presents it to her. ‘For you – a beauty for a beauty.’ Flo’s cheeks glow with pleasure.
‘Just be careful of its thorns,’ Grace tells her. ‘Even a little prick can draw blood.’
A look of annoyance passes over Jack’s face. ‘I was just tellin’ young Grace here, that the art of good management is delegation.’
‘Hope you like digestives, Grace; they’re Jack’s favourites.’ No one speaks as Flo pours the tea.
Jack clears his throat. ‘Another golden rule of business is not to get too friendly with your employees or they’re sure to take advantage. Keep ’em at arm’s length an’ you can’t go wrong.’
Flo straightens up. ‘Sit down – make yourself comfortable, Grace. I’ll leave you two to carry on with your chat. The boys’ll be wantin’ their tea.’ The chair’s still a bit damp but she sits on it all the same. Jack does the same.
‘You wouldn’t believe how much two growin’ lads can eat.’ Flo hands her a delicate cup and saucer, then picks up the rose. ‘Married fifteen years an’ my Jackie’s still an old softy.’
Jack takes a sip of his tea. ‘Makes a bloody good brew, my missus.’ The cup and saucer look too delicate in his hands.
Once Flo’s gone back indoors, he puts his tea down. ‘I’m surprised at you, Grace. I would have thought you’d enjoy playin’ the merry widow. From what I hear, you’ve got quite a bit of insurance money comin’ your way.’ He picks up a biscuit, waves it in the air in front of her face. ‘Some might say that inadvertently – now there’s a big word for you – inadvertently, my man done you a bit of a favour.’
‘A favour!’ She’s tempted to grab the teapot and throw that scalding tea right in his face.
‘We all know your Dennis was a poof.’ He chuckles. ‘What – you don’t like the word? Well then, how about a fairy? Let’s not beat about the bush – if you’ll excuse my pun. Your dearly beloved was a queer. It’s common knowledge he only married you to cover it up. Ask me, you’re well shot of him.’
The tea things rattle as she stands up. ‘No one did ask you for your ignorant – your stupid, bigoted opinions Jack Dawson.’ She’s shaking from head to foot. ‘My Dennis was a good man and he didn’t deserve to die.’
Purple in the face, he stands up. ‘You need to calm yourself down, gal – we don’t want Flo seein’ the two of us arguin’, do we? Upset her an’ you upset me – got it?’ He tries to plant his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugs him off.
‘Listen carefully, Grace Stevenson. I’m an old army man an’ I don’t like insubordination in the ranks. As a rule, I don’t comment on the way I run things because that’s my business an’ no bugger else’s. Just this once I’m prepared to tell you that the fella – for the purposes of our discussion I’ll call him a subcontractor – who overstepped the mark with Dennis has already been dealt with.’
He lifts both hands and holds them open to the sky. ‘Like this lawn, he’s pushin’ up daisies. If you came here for retribution – hark at me, I swallowed a dictionary – it’s already been seen to. Far as I’m concerned, whole thing’s done and dusted.’
‘What about Frank – you’ve made him carry the can, ruined his whole life and left him facin’ the noose when he’s an innocent man.’
‘Ah – now I get the picture. I heard you’d got more than a soft spot for that fuckin’ deserter.’ Jack steps right up next to her, breathes down into her face. ‘You know, sweetheart, you really do need to improve your taste in men. Beautiful girl like you could have her pick.’ He runs the back of his hand across her cheek.
‘Mean to say, first you go for a flamin’ poofter who’s a compulsive ruddy gambler. I’ll grant you at least he did have a bit of money behind him with that pub. Now you’re shot of him, you’ve gone an’ set your sights even lower – on a penniless, fuckin’ coward. A man who deserted his country an’ abandoned his own ruddy kid.’
He picks up the secateurs, points them right at her. ‘I gave you a chance once before an’ you turned me down. I’m a fair-minded man an’ I’m prepared to overlook your lapse of taste an’ come to an arrangement with you that’s mutually beneficial. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of beautiful things an’, even dressed like that, you, my darlin’, are a thing of beauty.’
‘Yes, I’ll do a deal with you,’ she says. Tethered by her sinking heels, Grace steps out of her shoes. The wet grass is soft and giving under her bare feet. ‘I know you want my pub an’ I’m prepared to sell it to you for a song – two hundred pounds. As you well know, that’s less than a tenth of what the building alone must be worth.’
A satisfied smile is already playing on his lips.
‘That’s right,’ she says, ‘I’m practically givin’ you the whole ruddy place lock, stock and barrel. A legal transfer no one could argue with. On one condition.’
‘Sweetheart, I’m all ears.’
‘In return, I want your solemn and lasting promise to leave me and mine alone from now on. And by mine I mean any man I choose to be with.’
He pouts, then looks her up and down.
‘Fair enough, it’s a deal.’ Jack transfers the clippers to his left hand, spits on his right one and holds it out towards her.
When it’s clear she’s not prepared to shake his hand, he lets it drop. ‘Here comes Flo – I ’spect she’s been watchin’ through the window; must have noticed we was rowing. I’m a man of my word; I’ll stick by our deal, Gracie, but I’d like you to put on your best smile for her sake before you fuck off out of here.’
Jack snips away at more faded heads. ‘I’ll have my lawyers draw up the appropriate documents this evening an’ send ’em round first thing in the mornin’.’ He doesn’t look at her once. ‘Like I said, I don’t expect you to find your way back here again. If you do, you know what to expect.’
‘Keep to your end of our bargain an’ I won’t need to.’ She’d have asked for more money but it’s already too late. Grace throws away her unfinished tea and puts the cup on the tray.
Turning away, she gives Flo a wide smile.
‘All done then, are we?’
‘We’ve finished our business chat,’ Jack says. ‘Unfortunately, Grace has to dash off.’
‘It was nice to see you again Flo,’ she says. ‘Thanks for the tea. Sorry I can’t stay for a natter.’ She picks up her shoes and walks barefoot across the lawn. ‘Cheerio,’ she shouts back.
‘Come back anytime,’ Flo calls after her. ‘And don’t forget to give my love to Elsie.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
From Whitechapel, Frank catches the tube to West Ham. He leaves the Underground station and finds the gents’ lavatory where he remembered it. Once the place has emptied out, he locks himself in a cubicle.
It’s easy to pull off the wig but the heavy eyebrows and moustache aren’t so easy to peel away and leave his skin feeling raw. How do actors do this every night?
Still quiet out there – as far as he can tell no one else has come in. He folds the walking stick up and fits it into its case. Once he’s stowed the rest of his props away, he listens at the door to be sure and then leaves the cubicle.
Frank washes his face in cold water; the carbolic soap stings his skin as he scrubs off the greasy stage makeup along with the remnants of the adhesive. Confident he’s more or less a normal colour again, Frank puts on heavy specs and carefully adjusts the brim of his hat to shade his eyes.
Back at the station, he boards a crowded train to Tilbury. Staring at his reflection in the windo
w, he’s pleased to see how different he looks from the last time he made this trip. A signalling problem adds ten minutes to his journey time. Once he’s left Tilbury station behind, he walks briskly along Dock Road.
After half a mile he spots a Bed & Breakfast sign – there’s no shortage of such places in this town. Inside the front window a small sign declares there are Vacancies. It’s a tall, terraced house and looks a bit rundown so it ought to be cheap enough.
A woman in a wraparound apron comes to the door, cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She hoists her considerable bosoms above her folded arms. Frank can’t begin to guess at her age.
‘Call me Pam, everybody does,’ she says with a friendly enough smile. ‘Once you’ve seen the room, I’ll be wantin’ payment in cash. Can’t afford to be too careful in my line of business.’
They pass a cramped little room off the hallway. ‘That’s our dining room,’ she says, with an unwarranted air of importance. ‘I always lay out the breakfast things in here so guests can help themselves. They leave at all hours of the morning, you see. Some of ’em desperate to get ahead of the queue, poor things. Most seem to be headin’ for Australia. Paid their ten quid for a ticket alright but most ain’t got much more than the clothes they stand up in to their name. Course, once they gets you out there, you have to cough up the full fare if you changes yer mind an’ want to come home again.’
She looks him up and down. ‘Where you off to then, darlin’?’
‘Melbourne,’ he tells her.
Pam lights another cigarette from the butt of the last and stubs the old one out in a brimming glass ashtray. ‘I’ll show you the room – don’t worry, it’s clean.’ She twists her mouth to blow the smoke away from his face. ‘No cockroaches and no bed bugs – not like some places round here.’
They climb a steep staircase leading to a dingy landing. Pam has to stop to get her breath back – a process that includes several more drags at her fag. ‘I lock that front door at ten minutes past eleven on the dot. If you’re not back by then, you’d better find another establishment.
Too Many Heroes Page 22
