by Kitty Neale
Stan was fully on the alert now. ‘What do you mean, the night before? The night before he died, you mean?’
‘Well it might have been on the day he died for all I know,’ the man said. ‘From what I read they weren’t exactly sure when he died, which side of midnight it was, I mean. All I know is that when I was shutting up the shop, about nine it must have been because I like to stay open late on summer evenings, he was making a tremendous racket next door. He used some of the upstairs rooms for storage, as I do, and I was up there cashing up. I could hear him through the dividing wall. It was like he was having a row with someone but there was only one voice. Extraordinary behaviour, but I recognised his plummy accent so it was most definitely him.’
‘Wait. You mean he was alive at nine that evening?’ Stan couldn’t believe his ears. Tommy had joined them in the pub well before nine on that fateful night.
‘Oh, without a doubt. Raving, he was. Actually using quite disgusting language, I was surprised at him.’
Stan realised he was shaking at this revelation. ‘Do you mind if I light up in here?’ he asked when he found his voice.
‘Be my guest,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘I suppose I should see what this letter’s about. Maybe he’s apologising for making such a din. For the first time ever, I had to bang on the wall. Not that it stopped him. If I hadn’t been so worried about my mother I’d have gone round to have a word with him, complain about the racket. Somewhere round here I have a letter opener. Let me see … here it is.’
Stan could hardly contain himself as the man fussed about, before finally slitting open the envelope. It contained just one page. The shopkeeper read it carefully and the colour of his face changed from a healthy pink to grey in a matter of seconds. ‘Oh no. Oh dear. This is terrible.’
‘May I see?’ asked Stan, craning his neck, but the man backed away.
‘I don’t think so. This is very personal. It certainly explains the shouting. Oh, if only I’d known, I could maybe have stopped him.’ He seemed on the verge of collapse.
‘Can I get you anything?’ asked Stan. ‘Water? Something stronger?’
The man had sunk on to a stool behind the counter and was staring blankly into space. ‘No, no. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this. He kept himself to himself, but I think as we sometimes spoke, he counted me as a sort of friend. Oh, but this. This is terrible.’
‘What is,’ Stan asked. ‘What does the letter say?’
The man shook his head. ‘I don’t know that I should tell you. It’s very private …’
Stan noticed some soft drinks on the shelf beside him and took a small bottle of dandelion and burdock to give to the man. ‘Have some of this. You’re in shock, the sugar will do you good.’
The shopkeeper took it gratefully. ‘You’re very kind. Really, there’s no need, but … I don’t know what to do. I fear there’s no mistaking what it means.’
‘Look, you’re obviously very upset about it, so it might help you to tell me,’ Stan urged.
The man shook his head in distress. ‘It’s dreadful. I think he must have lost his mind. That would explain all the noise that night. But … I can’t quite … well. The thing is, this is a suicide note.’
Stan stared at the man. ‘What? Are you sure?’ He couldn’t square the idea of suicide with the Alec Pugh he had known and loathed.
The tobacconist seemed more in control of himself now. ‘Yes, I’m afraid there’s no doubt.’
‘I don’t believe it. Not Alec Pugh. He just isn’t the type to do such a thing.’
The shopkeeper seemed to overcome his scruples. ‘Here you are, then. Read it for yourself.’
Stan stared in disbelief at the letter and squinted to make out the handwriting, which grew more and more illegible as the message went on:
My dear friend,
Forgive me for imposing in this way but you are right to be angry with me for the disturbance I caused earlier this evening. I feel I must offer you this by way of explanation. Once this letter is complete I shall bother you no further.
I fear I have deceived you these past two years. You know me as Charles Collier but I was formerly Alec Pugh. I fled London and left that name behind, but now my earlier life has caught up with me. My wife and her fancy man are here, plaguing me with the sight of them flaunting themselves in front of my two children. It was my intention to expose her for the adulterous slut that she is and take custody of the children myself but, after much soul-searching, I now realise that would be the wrong thing to do. They are tainted with her blood and no discipline will be enough to put them right. I am sickened to the core that her fancy man repeatedly attempted to bribe me, but I turned him down and now I shall return to the spot where he made his foul offer and end it all. Seeing my wife again has dragged up the past, and reminded me of my mother’s deception that causes me to suffer bouts of deep anger and depression. When I sold my mother’s house in London, I thought I would be rid of her, but no, she continues to taunt me, to haunt me, and I can’t stand it anymore. It is unbearable.
I am truly sorry for any inconvenience I have caused you.
Yours sincerely,
Charles Collier
There had been no murder. It hadn’t been an accident either. The one explanation that nobody had even entertained was that Alec had taken his own life. If it had been suggested, Stan would have totally ruled it out, thinking that his old neighbour was just the sort of self-righteous bastard to stay around and make everyone’s lives a misery for as long as possible. But he would have been wrong. Alec Pugh had thrown himself off the cliff. Tommy hadn’t pushed him. Suddenly Stan felt horribly guilty, knowing he had had those suspicions ever since the arrest, believing his friend might be capable of killing. Mavis had believed in Tommy, but surely he wasn’t the only one who’d had doubts?
‘So Alec Pugh killed himself,’ he breathed. ‘Thank God he wrote to you to explain or they’d have carried on trying to fit Tommy up for murder.’
‘Pardon?’ asked the man, only now realising that this customer had a very keen interest in the case. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but from reading the letter it would seem that poor Alec lost his sanity. He said his mother was haunting him, delusional of course, but who is this Tommy?’
Stan sighed and took a final drag of his cigarette. ‘I’ll tell you about him as we go.’
‘Go where?’ asked the man.
‘To the police,’ said Stan. ‘We have to go right away. There’s an innocent man due to stand trial for the murder of Charles Collier or Alec Pugh, and you’re the only one who can stop it happening.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
The next morning, Jenny sliced some bread for toast, although she didn’t really feel like eating. She always lost her appetite when Stan was away. Not only that, she was worried sick about Tommy and concerned for Mavis and her family. All in all she would rather have gone back to bed and pretended the day hadn’t started, but she knew she had to keep going for Greg, who was still settling into his new class though apprehensive about his form teacher.
They’d had the phone put in so that Stan’s company could reach him whenever they needed him, which on the one hand was a good thing as it showed how much they valued him, but on the other was a nuisance because nobody she really wanted to speak to had a telephone. She’d hoped that Pete would have installed one when he was doing up the house but it hardly mattered now; it looked as if he’d be losing it anyway. Mavis sometimes used the call box down her road, but as she was spending every waking moment on her paintings in an attempt to keep the wolf from the door, Jenny knew it was unlikely to be her ringing to say she was coming to see her. They had fallen out when Mavis had caught them talking about Tommy, when she had thought they were casting doubts about his innocence, but Mavis wasn’t one to bear grudges and they’d soon made up.
She had only just returned from taking Greg to school, but perhaps something had happened and her heart fluttered anxiously as she reac
hed for the receiver in the hall. ‘Hello?’
‘Jenny, thank goodness you’re in!’
‘Stan? Is everything all right?’ Jenny couldn’t tell what was wrong from one brief sentence but she recognised that Stan was extremely tired from his tone of voice. ‘Haven’t you slept well?’
‘I haven’t slept at all!’ said Stan, and yawned. ‘You’ll never believe what happened last night.’
Jenny put one hand out to the hallway wall and steadied herself in readiness, as she couldn’t tell if this was good or bad. ‘What is it, Stan? Tell me.’
Stan began the extraordinary story of going to the tobacconist on the seafront and what had followed. The police took a statement in which the tobacconist insisted that Alec Pugh was still alive at nine o’clock. They then said they would have to interview the bar staff and anyone else in the pub to establish where they had been that evening to establish what time Tommy had arrived, and how long he had remained. They would also have to verify Alec Pugh’s handwriting. ‘Once they’ve done that, with all this new evidence,’ Stan finished, ‘it will mean that Tommy will be released.’
‘Oh my God, Stan. Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?’
‘Well I rang his lawyer this morning and he said he’s going to do everything he can to set the wheels in motion.’
‘Oh, Stan, this is wonderful news, but why didn’t you ring to tell me all this last night?’
‘It was getting on a bit before we left the station, and then … well … I went for a drink to sort of celebrate. By the time I got back to the B and B, it was late and I thought you’d probably be in bed and asleep.’
Jenny couldn’t berate him. She was too happy and realised she was crying. She scrabbled in her apron pocket for her hanky. ‘I’ve got to tell Mavis.’
‘That’s partly why I rang,’ said Stan. ‘They haven’t got a telephone, so you’ll need to go over to Peckham to pass on the news.’
‘I will. I’ll go now.’ Jenny stuffed her hanky back into her pocket.
‘I’ve got to see a couple of clients now, but I’ll ring you again this evening.’
‘All right, darling. Love you,’ Jenny said, barely taking in Stan’s return affirmation before she replaced the receiver.
She dashed to the kitchen, found her purse and keys and ran to the door, leaving any further thoughts of having a couple of slices of toast behind.
Lily opened the front door. ‘Blimey, Jenny, what’s up with you? You’re jumping about like you’ve got ants in your pants.’
‘Lily, let me in, I’ve got important news,’ panted Jenny, who’d run all the way from the bus stop. ‘Is Mavis upstairs?’
‘She’s bound to be. She hasn’t put those paint brushes down for weeks,’ said Lily. ‘Come on, if you don’t mind me joining you, we’ll go up there now.’
They could smell the turpentine from the stairwell before they even got to the flat. Lily called out that she had a visitor outside and Mavis appeared at the living-room door, paint on her face and in her hair. ‘Jenny! This is a surprise. I’d offer you a cup of tea but I’m a bit messy.’
‘Never mind that,’ breathed Jenny. ‘Sit yourself down, Mavis. Stan just rang, he’s down in Torquay, and thanks to him going into a tobacconist’s, new evidence that proves Alec killed himself has come to light. He wasn’t murdered and now Tommy’s lawyer is doing all he can to get him released.’
Mavis just stared at her. ‘Say that again, Jenny. I want to make sure I heard it right. What new evidence?’
So Jenny explained everything that Stan had said, from the visit to the tobacconist to him giving a statement. Lily had stood open-mouthed, but Mavis was in tears by the time Jenny finished speaking.
‘We’ll ring the lawyer to see when he’s being released,’ Lily said. ‘Once we know, Pete can drive you to the prison gates to meet him.’
Mavis wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘I can’t seem to take it in. I’ve never doubted that Tommy is innocent, but with the taxi driver’s evidence against him, I was so frightened that a jury would find him guilty.’
‘Well it’s all over now and he’ll be coming home,’ Lily said.
Mavis sprang to her feet. ‘Look at the state of me, and this place,’ she cried, wiping her hands on the old, baggy shirt that she wore when painting.
‘Don’t panic,’ Jenny said, smiling. ‘I doubt he’s going to be released just yet.’
‘Maybe not, but when he is, I think we should give him a proper welcome,’ Lily suggested. ‘We should throw him a party, show him how much he’s been missed, and all those scandalmongers, the gossiping bitches, won’t get a foot in the door. They can all get stuffed.’
‘A party would be lovely, Mum, but can I have a bit of time alone with Tommy first?’ Mavis asked.
‘Of course you can darlin’,’ Lily agreed, ‘and then after the party we’ve got a wedding to plan.’
Pete had gone to his office, which was deathly silent. He’d had a few small jobs to do, a wall outside a house to build, along with fitting a new front door, but the money earned barely paid the rent on the premises. He’d only come to the office for a bit of peace and quiet, which was hard to come by at home. Lily meant well, always finding him things to do, but it made him sadder than ever, because whatever improvements he made, the likelihood was that they wouldn’t be there to enjoy them for much longer. The money Stan had lent him was nearly gone, and while Mavis’s paintings were bringing in enough to pay the interest on the loan, there were still bills outstanding.
He plugged in the kettle and set it to boil before remembering there wasn’t any milk. He didn’t really feel like tea anyway, it was just for something to do. He watched the steam coming out of the spout and misting up the cold window. The wind was blowing outside and a few dry leaves whirled around.
Some post had arrived. Pete shook his head, doubting it could be anything good. Probably another demand for impossible sums of money to stave off the imminent repossession of the house. One of the envelopes on the dusty floor looked official and he bent down to pick it up, his back stiff and his knees sore. That’ll be your age, he told himself. Age and sitting around doing nothing, not getting enough exercise. But what was the point when he was about to lose everything he’d worked so hard for?
He struggled with the flap of the envelope and stuck a pen in the corner to rip it open, almost tearing the letter inside. He could barely summon the energy to read it anyway. His eyes were red and dry from the wind he’d walked against on the way here, and from tiredness. He also hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks, certainly not since Torquay. They watered as he squinted to read the paragraphs which blurred as he looked at them.
Then he stood up straight. This was it. Here it was in black and white: approval for the construction project had come through at last. He was to be the major contractor. It was a definite commission. The price he’d so optimistically agreed back at the start of the year was confirmed. He would be paid partly on signature of the contract, which would be ready within the week. It was from Andreou’s assistant. The man had come good at last.
Pete was so overwhelmed that he struggled to bring coherent thoughts into order. He tried to think sensibly, to work out if the partial payment on signature would be enough to stave off the bank. It had to be. If he took this letter to the branch manager it would be proof that he would be able to pay off his debts. They wouldn’t evict him. The house was safe.
He would go to the bank now and then rush back to tell Lily. Pulling his van keys out of his pocket he ran out of the door, slamming it behind him, the letter clutched tight in his fist.
Rhona had done an early shift for once and immediately set off for Camden. She knew Jeff finished work by four-thirty most days and thought she’d surprise him at his flat. She had something in her bag that she was sure he’d like.
They’d had a couple more lessons since he’d lent her the portable cassette recorder with which they’d outwitted Larry and his threats, but she was still none
the wiser about how he felt about her. Sometimes he seemed on the verge of touching her, or kissing her, and she had waited for it to happen, yet all that had taken place was he had adjusted her hands on the guitar, just as he had before. That was the only real physical contact they’d had. She could have sworn the air was full of electricity between them, but as Jeff didn’t seem to notice it, maybe it was all one way.
The more Rhona got to know Jeff, the more special she realised he was, and so unlike the other men she’d known. She loved the way he explained what they were doing, how he helped her to see things for herself, how he never directly criticised her. He praised her progress and never complained that she was wasting his time. On the other hand he didn’t seem to appreciate her as a woman, no matter what she wore. She couldn’t make him out.
Following Mavis’s advice, she had studied the music press and local papers to find the perfect concert to ask him to. She couldn’t believe her luck. The Rolling Stones were playing at the Granada Theatre in Tooting. It was fate, she decided. It couldn’t have been better if she’d planned it herself. Jeff was almost as keen on the band as she was, and would definitely want to go.
Now she was going to present him with the ticket and wait to see how he reacted. If this didn’t work Rhona wasn’t sure what to do. She hadn’t told anyone what she’d planned. Mavis had enough on her plate, Penny was still getting over her near fatal miscarriage and as Jean was now her boss she wasn’t as easy to confide in as she used to be.
Rounding the corner towards the launderette, Rhona took a moment to check herself in the tiny mirror she carried in her bag. She’d slicked on some mascara and lipstick after work, nothing too showy but a step up from how she usually arrived for guitar lessons. It still looked fresh, even after the trek across London. She glanced at her watch. Perfect. He’d be back from work, but it was still too early for him to have left again for whatever he did in the evenings when she wasn’t there. She straightened her jacket and adjusted her dangling earrings, tucking her hair behind her ears. This was as good as she was going to look after a day at the factory. It was time to gather her courage and knock on the door.
