Too Many Heroes Read online

  ‘But I’ve already lied to them. Think about it for a second, Grace – if you didn’t believe me just now, what ruddy hope is there that Collingwood will?’

  He keeps on shaking his head over and over. ‘Don’t you see, I can’t prove any of this? On top of that, believe me this bloke he’s got people everywhere – he can get to anyone, anywhere. I’ve heard even a locked prison cell isn’t safe.’

  ‘So what the hell can we do?’ Her hands are shaking.

  He grabs her shoulders and this time she doesn’t push him away. ‘Listen, they would have arrested me by now if they had proof Dennis was murdered. That means we’ve got a bit of time.’ He takes a deep breath, tries to sound more confident than he feels. ‘I know where to go to get the right papers and passports – not just for me but for both of us. The two of us could be together. We could head off on the high seas and leave all this behind. There’s nowt to stop us. In a few weeks we could be in Australia – or New Zealand even.’

  She looks shell-shocked; her face unreadable.

  ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘You and me, we could start a whole new life together on the other side of the world. Places where there’s always fresh air and sunshine, big countries full of opportunity, if you’re not shy of hard work, big enough for Frank Danby and Grace Stevenson to become Mr and Mrs anything you like.’

  Frank pulls her towards him. ‘Haven’t you always wanted to start a new life?’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Frank, this is madness.’ The air’s too close; it feels like he’s squeezing all the breath out of her body. She pushes him away. ‘I mean, is that your idea of a marriage proposal?’

  ‘If you like. And why not, Grace? What’s keeping either of us here?’

  ‘We can’t simply up and leave the country like outlaws on the run from the local sheriff. These days they can radio ships and send messages and photographs all over the world. They’d be sure to track us down.’

  ‘Not if we’re just Mr and Mrs Smith. Trust me – with the right papers in your pocket, it’s easy to disappear.’

  She winces at that one. Her head’s beginning to spin like she’s about to throw up. ‘Here, sit down,’ he says, guiding her back to her seat, as though that could make things any better. ‘Can I get you a drink – water? A cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh yes, because that’s the answer in every bloody crisis – a brew up is bound to put things right.’ She’s so angry with him. Everything was bad before but now it’s ten times worse. It’s as well she’s sitting down now because her legs have gone to jelly. Maybe it would have been better if he’d stuck to his other story.

  She looks out of the window – at the cherry tree swaying in the breeze in the Westons’ back garden. ‘But what if Dennis just slipped and fell into the river – have you thought of that? We’d have left everything behind for no good reason.’

  He keeps on shaking his head like she’s the one talking nonsense. ‘They beat Dennis up – almost left him for dead. Do you honestly think after everythin’ I’ve told you, that his death could have been just an accident?’

  ‘They still have to prove it.’ She’s the one shaking her head now. ‘If we run, the coppers will assume we’re both guilty. We’ll be playin’ right into their hands.’

  ‘But they’ll do that if we stay. I’ll be put on trial and probably hanged for murder.’ The look of desperation on his face frightens her; the old confident Frank has all but disappeared. ‘Even if they don’t prosecute you as an accomplice,’ he says, ‘you’ll forever be seen as some sort of scarlet woman.’

  Grace looks around the familiar, cluttered room. ‘But what about Mum and me aunty; and then there’s Dot and her mum and dad – the Westons have bin like a second family to me; I’d have bin lost without them these last few days. And what about the pub – Dennis and me worked bloody hard to keep that place goin’ all these years.’

  A bang at the door makes them both jump. From where she’s sitting Grace can see the front door. Someone’s just posted a newspaper through the letterbox and now it’s lying on the mat.

  Frank’s slow to calm down – she notices the way his hands are shaking. Part of her is tempted by his offer of a new life, of a new identity she gets to choose for herself. Her head is buzzing. ‘I need time to think,’ she tells him. ‘Look, you’d better go – Ralf will be back soon. It would be as well if he doesn’t find you here.’

  He kisses her wet eyelids before he leaves; promises everything’s going to be okay again. In her heart she knows nothing will ever feel right again.

  It’s no good – she’s finished all the chores and can’t sit there twiddling her thumbs.

  Grace grabs her handbag and sunglasses and steps out into a perfectly ordinary day. Out in the street, that sun beats down on her head like it’s never going to rain again. A handful of little children are out there playing all the usual games, the littlest ones are wearing sunbonnets so, despite the shouting and arguing, they have the look of little angels.

  There’s no breeze and the houses at every turn are packed in too tight together. As she walks along the narrow pavement, she thinks she can spot a face behind every net curtain. When a black cat crosses her path, she watches it jump into a front garden and then starts to laugh so hard she has to lean against a brick wall to get herself under control again.

  Without really thinking, she finds herself back in the street outside the Eight Bells. Now it’s all shut up, the pub is a sorry sight. That chipped paint on the windows and sills looks worse than ever it did before. For the first time, she notices how a tiny tree has taken root in one corner of the front gutter. Those makeshift signs Frank put up in the windows have already begun to yellow in the sun.

  She’d reminded Frank of all the hard work she and Dennis put into this place. How can she walk away from it now? What will happen to this pub once her back’s turned? That villain – Frank’s mystery man – is bound to snap it up; after everything that’s happened, it’ll go for a song and with her on the other side of the world powerless to stop it. He’ll turn this place – their pub – into just another part of his crooked empire. Dennis would turn in his grave.

  Behind her, someone clears his or her throat. She spins round to find it’s only Charlie Metcalfe peering over his specs at her, cap in hand. ‘I haven’t had a chance to say it, but I’m very sorry about what’s happened to your Dennis.’

  ‘Thank you, Charlie.’

  ‘He was a good man an’ a decent landlord.’ He fiddles with his hat. ‘I already miss the old bugger, if you ’scuse me French.’

  Grace nods her appreciation, too moved to speak. Charlie looks as if he wants to say more but thinks better of it.

  She finds the side door key in her bag and lets herself in. A pile of post is spread out over the floor. Some of it snags the door when she tries to close it until she yanks at a few of the letters.

  Amongst them there’s a large one with Tomlinson’s your friendly local undertakers stamped across the front. Dennis would have roared at the cheek of it.

  Mr Tomlinson begins by offering her his condolences. She reads on.

  Your late husband was a fine fellow: a good friend to many and a good landlord to all. I’ve no doubt he will be sadly missed by everyone who knew him.

  If I can be of service to you at this sad time, please get in touch.

  Late husband eh. It seems to suit him well – late in life and now late in death. Poor Dennis. She’s shocked at herself, at how she could have thought for one second about running away to a new life with Frank when her husband’s not even been buried yet. Does he expect her to up leave before the funeral’s even been arranged?

  Grace takes the other letters into the kitchen and sifts through them one at a time. All the while, she tries to think about Dennis when he was still alive but it’s not long before the other Dennis creeps back. His brother identified him but that hasn’t stopped her picturing his cold body lying naked on a slab in the morgue.

  To dist
ract herself from such awful thoughts, Grace opens the other letters. She’s touched that most of the regulars have written and all of them saying such nice things. Each one adds a little something about how Dennis had made them laugh or helped them out or always had a kind word; and all of them say they’ll miss him.

  She goes through into the public bar and straight away she can picture him leaning on the counter with a glass of whisky alongside him, having a good old chinwag with somebody or other. The smell of stale beer and smoke is even stronger than usual.

  Whatever the consequences, doesn’t her Dennis deserve to have his death properly investigated? When all’s said and done, he was her husband and, if he was murdered, the coppers ought to find out exactly who did it.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In truth, Frank doesn’t know where to start. Since they scrapped identity cards, he hasn’t had to worry about such things – not like he used to in the old days.

  When he’d first come to London, some ten years ago, someone had tipped him off about a chap with a pitch in the market down in Bermondsey reputed to be able to supply you with any document you care to mention.

  The recommended man turned out to be a thickset fellow with a bushy moustache going by the name of Robbie. He was understandably wary, wanted to know exactly who’d recommended his services before he decided to trust Frank. Robbie claimed to be the intermediary for his brother Gerald, and it was Gerald who could get you more or less any piece of paper you wanted for the right price. No one Frank knew had ever seen hide nor hair of this Gerald.

  The street where they used to hold the market is empty. Could Wednesday be an off day? He pops into the newsagents right on the corner. Once he’s paid for a Daily Mirror, he asks the balding chap in there about the street market.

  ‘They packed it in a couple of years back,’ he tells him. ‘Not enough trade.’

  ‘That’s a real shame.’ He doesn’t need to act his disappointment. ‘Thing is, I was hoping to find my old pal Robbie. What with this and that, the two of us lost touch a few years back – you know how it is? He used to sell secondhand clothes and that sort of thing.’

  ‘What, Robbie Harding?’ The newsagent looks pleased as punch. ‘You’re in luck, mate; your pal’s gone up in the world these days – got himself a fancy shop just off the square.’

  The newsagent plants a hand on his shoulder and walks with him to the doorway. ‘Turn left just over there, see. At the end of that street, turn left again an’ you can’t miss it.’

  The sign over the double-fronted shop reads: Harding’s Fashion Wear. Its proprietor comes towards Frank in a suit and tie, the collar digging into his broad neck. It’s been ten years and Robbie’s filled out in every direction; his moustache has been trimmed into submission and he’s sporting a new hairstyle that’s not dissimilar to Prince Phillip’s.

  ‘Can I be of assistance, sir?’ He’s even worked on his cockney accent.

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember me,’ Frank says. ‘Your brother Gerald helped me out a few years back.’

  Robbie’s face drops. He looks past Frank to the door. ‘I’m sorry but my brother’s no longer in that line of business.’

  ‘That’s a real pity. I always appreciated the quality of his work. I just thought he might be interested in doing a favour for a loyal customer.’

  ‘Like I said, pal, my brother can’t help you anymore.’ Robbie stands there for a minute rubbing at his chin. ‘However, I could give you the address of another chap in his line of work. This fella’s just as fine a craftsman.’ He scribbles the name Arthur on an old envelope – no last name – just an address. ‘You should find him easy enough – his place is only a stone’s throw from the tube station.’

  He looks down at his fancy watch. ‘He’ll have knocked off by now. Suggest you call round just after seven tomorrow morning if you want to catch him in. Be sure and tell him Robbie Harding sends his regards.’

  ‘I hope Gerald’s enjoying his retirement.’ Frank holds out his hand. ‘Thanks a lot, mate, I really appreciate your help.’

  Instead of shaking his hand, Robbie nods his head. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, got some new stock to price up.’

  Thursday 3rd July

  It’s drizzling when Frank leaves home – not the sort of rain you expect after such a prolonged dry spell. The way he’s feeling, he’d prefer thunder and lightning to be crashing overhead; that would at least clear the air.

  Despite the early hour, the city’s already woken up. Crossing the road, he has to dodge between buses and cars and an endless stream of bicycles ringing out their warning bells.

  He finds himself enjoying the exercise. It’s refreshing to feel a fine spray on his face, though the rain’s hardly enough to wet the pavements.

  He’s approaching the river; foghorns are booming out at regular intervals – they sound like the cries of prehistoric monsters hiding in the mist. Up ahead, Tower Bridge emerges out of the fog, both halves raised to allow the grey bulk of a cargo ship to pass underneath.

  Fortunately, Frank’s set aside plenty of time for his journey; time enough to admire the sheer scale and beauty of the bridge’s vast metal structure. He wonders about the lives of the anonymous men who built her all those years ago.

  Whitechapel isn’t an area he knows especially well but he’s confident he can locate the address without asking for directions. After a bit of toing and froing, he finds the sign he’s been looking for on the wall of an alleyway.

  There’s no response when Frank knocks though he can see light shining through the thin gap between the two doors. A wireless or gramophone is playing band music. He cups his hands to the door and bellows: ‘Hello, is anybody there?’

  After a while longer, the right-hand door is wrenched open.

  ‘What d’you want?’ The bloke addressing him is tall and wiry. If he saw him in the street, he’d think he was a clerk with those tortoiseshell glasses and slicked back hair. He’s young too – no more than twenty-five or so.

  ‘Are you Arthur?’

  The man scrutinises his face so closely he begins to feel uncomfortable. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘My name’s Frank. Friend of mine by the name of Robbie Harding thought you might be able to help me.’

  ‘Did he now?’ The bloke remains where he is, blocking the view to the inside.

  ‘Thing is, I’m looking to acquire a few bits of paper and Robbie told me how much he admired your work; said you were a real craftsman.’

  His expression doesn’t soften an inch as he peers at Frank’s face and then his clothes. ‘I don’t work for nothin’ – ain’t running no charity here.’

  ‘You’ve no worries on that score, mate – I’ve got the readies to pay for what I need; that’s if the workmanship’s up to scratch. It’s got to pass muster.’

  ‘I assure you it will.’ Behind the lenses, Arthur’s eyes are slits. ‘Just so’s we’re clear – I’ll need a substantial sum up front before I begin. A token of good faith, you might say.’

  Frank weighs his options. ‘Okay, mate, that’s fair enough.’

  Arthur opens the door wider – just enough to allow him to step inside the small workshop. Looking round, he can see it’s quite a setup.

  ‘Don’t let the humbleness of my premises here fool ya,’ Arthur says from behind him. ‘I can assure you I’m pretty much the best in the business.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Stepping inside the Eight Bells, Grace takes off her damp headscarf and shakes it. The sound of snoring greets her and she has quite a start. When it carries on, she follows the noise into the public bar.

  Ralf had made all the arrangements – paid good money to this couple of so-called night watchmen. It’s not like she hadn’t made enough racket coming in, yet both men are sound asleep on their camp beds. Even at this distance the smell of their sweat is laced with their beery breath.

  Empty glasses are lined up along the sticky counter. Had they invited their friends in or d
id they prefer to use a clean glass each and every time they helped themselves to another drink on the house?

  She remembers their names – who could forget they’re known as Fred and Ginger? It isn’t hard to spot Ginger’s head of fiery curls poking out of the sheet that’s wrapped around his bulk.

  She loudly clears her throat but neither one of them stirs. Resisting the urge to kick them awake, she picks up the hand bell they use for last orders and shakes it right next to their ears.

  Wide-eyed with panic, the two men scrabble to their feet and stand there staring at her through bleary eyes. Grace wishes she had been spared the sight of their sagging bodies and far from clean underpants. ‘You’re being paid to keep an eye on this place and what happens?’ She gives them no time to answer. ‘Instead you betray Ralf’s trust an’ drink yourselves senseless at my expense.’

  ‘Hang on a sec –’ Ginger begins to protest.

  ‘Don’t you dare deny it. Any bugger could have strolled in here an’ stolen half the stock, an’ neither of you two sleepin’ beauties would be any the wiser.’ She’s so angry she’s tempted to clout them with the weighty bell she’s still holding. ‘You can clear off out of here right now.’ It rings as she gestures towards the door.

  ‘But Ralf said you –’

  ‘I don’t give a monkey’s what Ralf did or didn’t say. I’m the boss round here an’ I’m tellin’ you both to sling your ruddy hooks right this minute.’ She puts the bell down before she gives in to temptation. ‘And make sure you take all that rubbish of yours with you.’

  Once she’s heard their grumbling departure, Grace goes through into the public to clear up the mess they’ve left. She starts with the dirty glasses and continues to work out her feelings while scrubbing and polishing every sticky surface. After that, she fetches the bucket and some disinfectant and mops all the floors. Satisfied with the results, she tackles the glue from the sticking plaster that’s still clinging to the inside of the windows. She has to use vinegar and old newspaper to remove every last bit.