But where was Peggy?
“Kidnapped,” I concluded with relish, “for a ransom!”
All fear was forgotten. I grasped Bones’ sharp shoulders and squealed with delight. This was an adventure. With visions of Starsky and Hutch (or Starkers and Butch as they were known in our house) and The Sweeney in my mind, I grabbed the can off the bed and leaped the short distance back into the living room. Bert, his ankles still tied, had levered himself up to lean against an armchair and was reaching for the telephone on the small table beside it.
“Call the police,” he croaked feebly through parched lips.
Bones, who was much more of a humanitarian than I was, gave him the handset. I was sharply disappointed. I had seen enough kidnap cases on television to know that you didn’t call the police, the kidnappers always told you not to do that, and anyway, the police would take all the fun out of it.
Bert jiggled the receiver and dialed and jiggled the receiver again until Bones helpfully tracked the telephone wire back to the wall and exhibited to him the frayed edges where it had been ripped from the wall. The erstwhile captive turned agonised eyes towards me.
“Get me help!”
Bones looked to me for leadership and I hesitated a moment. Could I persuade the old man that we three alone should be the heroes of this story? No, was the answer of course. I sighed inwardly and then took to my heels. It was compensation that I could still be the bearer of the astonishing tidings to my Canvey World. I had found, well if not the body exactly, the next best thing. I had rescued the man and set the police on the trail of the kidnappers. I was the hero of the hour, the day, the week. I had forgotten Bones’ presence in all this, but he wouldn’t mind. I relished the tales I would tell at school the next day. That is if I went. I might be needed to assist the police with their enquiries as I was the first witness on the scene and all. I sprinted down the street as fast as I could, bypassing all other houses to get to my own. This was my adventure and I wasn’t going to share it with anyone else. Except with Bones, but he was so self-effacing that he didn’t count.
I crashed through the kitchen door. Mum and her horrible friend Vi were at the kitchen table smoking and drinking hot, sweet tea whilst mum painted Vi’s gnarled toenails a vibrant, bloody red.
“What the f….”
The nail varnish streaked across her friend’s foot like a fresh wound as both started violently at the sudden eruption of noise and activity.
“Mikey, you little sod. Look what you’ve done. Get your skinny backside out of here, you little bugger.”
This wasn’t far different from a normal greeting from my loving mother, so I ignored her, chucked the lager can from Peggy’s bed into our overflowing bin and, heaving aside a pile of tabloids and gossip magazines, scrabbled for the phone. I dialed 999 with an intense feeling of satisfaction. Bones was at my side and my mother and Vi were still hurling invective at me as I heard the calm voice at the end of the phone.
“Which service do you require?”
“All of ‘em,” I replied succinctly.
“Please state your name and the nature of the emergency.” This wasn’t what I expected at all. Whoever was on the other end of the phone sounded bored.
“There’s been a kidnapping,” I yelled. Mother and Vi froze and I had their full attention at last.
“Your name, please.” The voice sounded deeply suspicious.
“A woman’s been kidnapped,” I yelled even louder in case she hadn’t grasped the full import of my words.
“Your name…?”
“The millionaire’s wife,” I crowed, “she’s been kidnapped and Bert, the bloke, ‘e’s been tied up and we thought ‘e was dead, but they pulled the phone out of the wall.”
“Yes… I need to know your name, please.”
“I tell you it’s a kidnapping,” I bellowed.
“How old are you?” the voice was dripping with sarcasm. “Do you know the penalty for wasting police time? Is your mother there?”
I held the phone away from me in astonishment and looked towards my open-mouthed mother.
“They don’t believe me,” I said.
She looked shaken but lunged at me in a vain attempt to wrest the phone from me.
“Put the bleedin’ phone down Mikey. I dunno what you’re up to. It’s one of your bloody stupid games, isn’t it? Put it down or I’ll friggin’ crown you,” was her loving response.
Vi lit another cigarette and glared at me with undisguised hatred. No help there then. My mother was white with irritation although I couldn’t see what I had done to warrant such a virulent reaction. I was the hero of the hour, wasn’t I? But I was beginning to understand that females were always remarkably stupid about understanding what was really important and what wasn’t. I took what I still consider to be the mature course of action under such a provoking circumstance. I evaded my mother’s attempts to pull the receiver from my hands by squeezing into the broom cupboard and half closing the door. I then put two fingers up and otherwise ignored them.
“Look, you stupid cow,” I bellowed into the handset. “I found a man, tied up and gagged in ‘is ‘ouse. ‘Is wife s’not there and ‘e told me to call the police. ‘Is address is 7 Burtonville Road.”
Then I extricated myself from the cord of the Hoover and the entanglements of broomsticks, slammed the phone receiver back into its cradle on the wall and, with Bones once more at my heels, I crashed out of the kitchen, leaving Mum and Vi dripping nail varnish, sweet tea, and invective whilst I tore back down the street before anyone else could take possession of our wonderful adventure.
4
Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind,
And makes it fearful and degenerate;
Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep.
William Shakespeare (Henry VI)
We re-entered through the French windows. Bones got a glass of water from the kitchen and assisted Bert whose gnarled hands were palsied and shaking to take a few sips. He also disposed of a mysteriously foul-smelling dressing gown that was stuffed into a magazine rack by chucking it into the marigolds outside. Like I said before, Bones had more humanity than me. And better housekeeping skills.
I rummaged about for a while looking for clues to the crime but there wasn’t anything in the way of bloodied footprints, finger-print encrusted guns or threatening notes and my knowledge of forensics wasn’t particularly advanced at that time. I did find a sweet wrapper by the fireplace and the plastic arm from a broken pair of glasses under the settee, so I slipped them into the pocket of my shorts to consider later. In the kitchen, I picked up a crumpled matchbook from somewhere called Bernie’s Bar and there were more lager cans forced into a bin as well as a bottle of whisky, two thirds full, standing in the sink as if it had been rinsed off. Dutch courage, and rather a lot of it. I calculated that I wouldn’t be able to get the cans to the bin outside without comment and decided to leave well alone. To tell the truth, I was in a bit of a quandary and needed time to think things through. I did not want to relinquish my hold on the drama or my starring role in it. On the other hand… I went back into the living room and perched on the windowsill to survey the room and smoke the remaining half of one of the discarded cigarettes I had found outside earlier.
When the police car eventually rolled up outside Bert and Peggy’s house it was to find Mum and Vi in the street, barefoot and scarred with red streaks of varnish, trying to peer through the front windows down the length of the pretty garden. Vi had Mum’s arm entwined in her own as if she was under some level of compulsion and would have preferred not to be there, which, with the arrival of the police imminent, she probably didn’t. More of the reasons for that later. Vi had no more reason to be sanguine about the boys in blue than my mother but was a bolder, more determined and more inquisitive character than her. Her contempt for everyone, but particularly the police, gave
her a permanent air of insolence and made her invariably unpleasant to be around. She was, however, the one person who had any influence at all over my usually self-willed mother.
Mrs. B had also bestirred herself to walk as far as her front gate to see what the commotion was about and was loudly demanding that Mum and Vi tell her exactly what was going on. They ignored her. A single policeman climbed out of his car and sauntered up to the house. His desultory enquiries were met with shrugs and dirty looks from the two disheveled women and, rightly concluding that questioning them would gain him nothing, he knocked sharply on the door. Retaining my seat, I jerked my head at Bones and he obediently went to open the front door.
“Well, boy?” I heard the copper say as if immensely irritated at being called away from whatever it was he had been doing previously. “What’s all this about? Burglary?”
I don’t think Bones said anything. It would be like him not to, but just to stand aside and indicate the main scene of action. As I have mentioned before, he was very self-effacing. That was why I liked him.
“In ‘ere,” I called.
The officer who entered was tall and burly with mutton-chop whiskers and a weary attitude. He stood at the door to the living room, glanced first at me with palpable disdain, then down at Bones who had followed him in and said, “Now lads, what’s all this about then?”
“Stupid pig,” I thought, happy in my superior knowledge.
I opened my mouth to begin my long and detailed explanation. but Bert suddenly energised interrupted.
“Constable,” croaked Bert feebly trying to stand. Bones darted forward and offered his arm as assistance. My friend eventually went into care work and lived out his meagre life just being there when needed but I don’t think he was ever noticed or valued any more than he was on that day.
The policeman took one look at old Bert and was all attention. He begged him to sit down and to tell him what had happened. Bert leaned forward and grasped the policeman’s brawny arm with thin bony fingers. His watery blue eyes were more watery than usual, and it was with astonishment that I saw he was crying. I’d never seen a man cry. At least not a real one, one who was not a wimpy actor on the telly. I didn’t think they did. Bert wept harsh dry sobs, wrung from him by hours of agonising discomfort and anxiety.
“My wife,” he sobbed. “They took my wife.”
The policeman glanced around at us, as discomforted as it is possible for a man with mutton chop whiskers to be. And then, when the manly embarrassment was subsumed by an understanding of what Bert was telling him, a touch of incredulousness took its place.
This was Canvey Island after all. Petty crime, yes. Villains, yes, although they never operated near home. That was an unwritten law and served the island well overall. And yes, there had once been a much-publicised stabbing outside the famous (some would say infamous) Goldmine nightclub on the seafront by a youth who had not learned to handle either his emotions or his alcohol, but kidnapping! That was big league.
I saw the copper study the little room with its cheap, comfortable chairs, and disbelief crept in.
“They won the pools,” I said in impatient explanation. He stared at me and then the penny dropped.
“Ah yes, I see, I see.” For a moment he pondered. “I’ll have to call this in.”
You could see the regret momentarily in his eyes. He too wanted to be ‘man of the moment’. His career could not have ever encompassed anything this exciting before, but he would have to pass it on to others deemed more competent, more experienced, more educated. I almost felt sorry for him as he lumbered to his feet, and out of the door to his car.
Vi and my mum had retreated to a more distant pavement and the inestimable Mrs. Burbridge had joined them. The three glared resentfully at the policeman, mainly because that was their habit, but Mrs. B, hypocrite that she was called out, “Are they all right, officer? We’re old friends. Is there anything I can do?”
She made a dive for the front door, but Mutton Chops knew his business, at least as far as nosy neighbours went, and with a combination of his solid body and a firmly pointed finger, he encouraged her back to the pavement where all three remained, glowering, until he had finished his call on the radio in his car. As could be clearly surmised by the frustration on their faces, they could not hear what was said and the policeman gave nothing away as he walked back towards the house. Mrs. B hurtled across the street, summoned up a few tears from heaven knows where, firmly grasped his arm and became suddenly helpless and emotional, a bizarre sight to all of us who knew her as the hard-bitten, backbiting, self-centered old bag that she really was.
“Oh, somefink terrible ‘as ‘appened. I know it! Is she dead? Oh, oh, oh not Peggy. Not my Pegs!”
Mutton Chops deftly released himself but was entangled again with the help of my mother and Vi, who, taking their cue from Mrs. B, joined in the little drama with all the expertise of professional actors.
“Oh, tell us wot ‘as ‘appened,” they chorused before Mrs. B took the leading role as chief mourner. “They are such sweet people, best friends we was. Dear Peggy, is she aw right? Let me make ‘er a cuppa tea. Or ‘im, is it ‘im poor man...?”
The performance, being devoid of honest feeling was somewhat lacking although my mother did look more wound up than I had seen her for some time.
Mutton Chops shut the door firmly in their faces and I distinctly heard Vi swear and call him a colourful and obscene name which didn’t add to the credibility of her performance as a caring, concerned neighbour. He probably heard too but was used to it and had other things on his mind. He returned to Bert’s side. Bones had busied himself in finding a packet of biscuits and putting the kettle on. He had decided that Bert was probably hungry as he had been tied up for so long. He had found a length of toilet roll for Bert to mop his eyes with and picked up a framed photograph of Peggy, dressed and hatted in violent pink, that had fallen on the floor. He placed it on the little table next to the packet of biscuits. Bones was occasionally insightful, although this was certainly due more to instinct and empathy than to intellect.
Bert was cramming the biscuits into his mouth as if desperate to draw strength from them. Bones ate with him in sympathy and because they were chocolate. The kettle boiled on unheeded in the kitchen. I kept my perch on the window sill determined to maintain a prime position in this little drama for as long as I could.
“Flying squad, will be here soon,” said the policeman, thrillingly. He snatched the remains of the cigarette from my lips as he spoke and ground it out in a nearby ashtray. I would have taken violent exception to this if I hadn’t been distracted by his words. Flying squad! The Sweeney! Bones gave me a wide and slightly cross-eyed look of excitement. Bert tried to stand, saying something through the crumbs about Peggy, but he staggered slightly and put his hand to his head. Bones and the policeman caught him as he lurched forward and deposited him back into the flowered armchair.
“My wife, my wife,” he moaned. “You must find her. She was so frightened when they took her and so much time has passed.”
“When was this, sir?” asked the policeman with more respect and empathy than I would previously have given him credit for possessing.
Peggy’s pale face at the window of their car when I was watching from my bedroom in the early hours of the morning rose before me.
“’Bout six-firty this mornin’,” I said positively.
“That would be about right,” said Bert, holding his head and rocking forward, despair in every aged sinew of his weakened body.
“And how do you know that, boy?” Mutton chops turned sharply to look at me and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Saw em, from me bedroom window,” I replied airily. “Saw ‘er anyways. I fought it was ‘im driving,” I indicated Bert with a jerk of my chin, “cos ‘e ‘ad a flat cap pulled over ‘is ‘ed and a scarf round ‘is neck. It were about six-firty and
there might ‘ave been someone in the back too.”
I had no real reason for thinking that but there might have been.
“It’s been hours since they took her,” moaned Bert. “You must do something to find her, please!”
“Did you recognise ‘em?” asked the policeman. I suppose he had to ask that, but I was damned sure that Bert would have said so first off if he had so I huffed in contempt. Bert shook his head impatiently.
“Now, I’m not quite understanding,” continued the copper tentatively. “Did they take your wife for a ransom? Is that what you are saying?”
“No, no, they were taking her to the bank. I was the one being ransomed, don’t you see?”
He broke off to cough and the confused policeman nodded sagely.
“There were three of them. They’d been drinking.” Bert struggled to speak. “One stayed here with me to make sure that Peggy did as she was told. Peggy was to go to the bank when it opened and withdraw a few thousand pounds and then they would phone here and let us both go. That is what they said, and I tried to tell them, I tried to warn her that it wouldn’t work, that they wouldn’t give her the money… but the phone call came too early, too early.”
Bert was desperate to tell it all.
“The phone call from the abductor was too early?” queried Mutton Chop.
Abduction was a good word. I could use that on the school playground tomorrow. “Oh, yeah, I saw the abductor, big, brawny bloke, ‘e was.”
“Poor Peggy, my poor girl.” Sobs overcame the old man and wracked his spare frame. “Do you think they let her go?”
The copper looked like he would really prefer not to answer that question, but Bert had already come to his own conclusions.
“No, you would have known, she would have called you, and anyway the call came too early, too early…”
“What do you mean the call came too early?” Mutton Chops asked although he should have been able to work it out for himself. I had.
A Patient Man Page 3
