Too Many Heroes Page 21

  Grace has been over those same damn words a dozen times or more but still can’t decide what to do. If only there was more time.

  The ringing doorbell shakes her out of her reverie. She opens it to Inspector Collingwood. Behind him, Sergeant Bradley’s burly figure is blocking the light. Looking over his shoulder, to the street behind, two women dawdle, don’t even bother to disguise their piqued interest.

  ‘Good day to you, Mrs Stevenson.’ The inspector raises his hat. ‘You remember Sergeant Bradley?’ His thin moustache seems to quiver like an animal’s whiskers. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Grace steps aside to let them through. She shows them into the front room, aware that their dark outlines are probably still visible from outside through the net curtains. ‘Won’t you please take a seat.’

  Moving aside some knitting, Collingwood puts down his hat and perches in Lottie’s chair. Grace chooses the sofa directly opposite.

  Cradling his helmet like a rugby ball, the sergeant remains standing by the door as if poised to catch her should she try to make a run for it. ‘Can I get either of you a cup of tea?’ Her voice sounds like someone else’s – some actress she’s heard on the wireless.

  ‘No, but thank you.’ The sergeant shakes his head.

  Collingwood leans forward then clears his throat to show he’s getting down to it. ‘As you’re aware, we’ve been trying to ascertain exactly how your husband’s body may have gotten into the river. To be quite certain of our conclusions, my super arranged for a second pathologist – a Doctor Kilburn – to examine Mr Stevenson’s body. Doctor Kilburn’s subsequent report is clear even to a comparative layman like myself.’

  He stares straight at her, his brown eyes unblinking. ‘He concurs with the first pathologist, Doctor Sibley that, prior to his entry into the water, Mr Stevenson was rendered unconscious by a considerable blow to the head. Forgive me, but for your clarity, I need to go into more detail.’

  He turns his head to the side and waits.

  ‘Go on,’ she says, hardly trusting her own voice.

  ‘From the size of the indentation in your husband’s skull and the minute fragments of wood embedded in that wound, both pathologists concur that the implement most likely would have been a wooden cosh of some kind.’

  ‘Was he hit deliberate though? Couldn’t he have slipped and hit his head on something wooden?’

  The way he’s peering at her now, she could be a specimen under a microscope. ‘Quite so,’ he eventually says. ‘I believe we’ve arrived at the crux of the matter.’

  It’s a relief when he looks away to fish his notebook out of his pocket. He flips through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for. ‘You see, there were marks on your husband’s ankles and lower back, which Doctor Sibley agrees were more recent than his other injuries and consistent with the unconscious man being carried or dragged into the river by his assailant.’

  He snaps the notebook shut. Her head is spinning like she’s got up too quickly. She watches his mouth moving but finds it hard to piece together what he’s saying. ‘Just to be clear, Mrs Stevenson.’ She forces herself to concentrate. ‘We’re now in no doubt your husband was unlawfully killed – murdered.’

  The room and everything in it turns black. When she opens her eyes, the other copper, the sergeant, is handing her a cup of water and telling her she should drink it.

  She takes a sip.

  ‘I have no wish to cause you further distress, Mrs Stevenson, but now that you’ve recovered a little, I’m afraid we must turn to the pressing matter of your late husband’s possible assailant.’

  The cold liquid seems to be lodged in her throat. She pulls herself upright – this is important.

  ‘So far, Mrs Stevenson, our foremost – you could say our prime suspect – is your erstwhile barman; the man currently calling himself Frank Danby.’

  ‘Calling himself?’ She peers at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We believe Danby is the alias he’s been using for quite some time.’

  ‘So, if his name’s not that, what is it?’

  ‘It would seem that, in actual fact, there are a number of options to choose from.’ A twitch of his mouth – the beginning and end of a smile. ‘In the past, the man you know as Frank Danby went by the name of Frank Walton. There could have been others. However, we now know his real name is Francis John Whitby.’ He waits for that to sink in. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that, far from being the solid citizen you described to us, Mr Whitby is a deserter from the armed services – the Royal Air Force to be precise. He was finally and officially declared absent without leave in October of 1942.’

  ‘I know nothin’ about that,’ she tells him straight. ‘I was down in Brighton when my husband took him on. At the time I was looking after my mother who was gravely ill. Dennis must have checked Frank’s papers an’ satisfied himself the man was honest – you have to be very careful when you’re running a pub.’

  She makes herself take another sip of water and it helps steady her. ‘In any case,’ she says, ‘all that can’t matter now – war’s been over nearly seven years, after all.’

  That gets him going. ‘These things certainly do still matter. The fellow deserted his country in her very hour of need.’ His face has reddened to boiling point. ‘And I can assure you, desertion is still punishable by imprisonment.’

  ‘Well then, it’s quite a bit of luck you finding all this out about Frank – and so quickly.’ She’s in no doubt they’ve been tipped off by somebody; it’s not hard to guess who might be behind it.

  Collingwood picks up on that straight away. ‘We pride ourselves on being thorough in our enquiries, Mrs Stevenson.’ He frowns. In his dark eyes she sees exactly what he thinks – how her and Frank have been tarred with the same brush.

  The inspector sits up a little straighter. ‘I gather the two of you have become rather close.’ Oh yes, he’s enjoying himself now. ‘You may seek to defend the man’s character, but let me assure you he’s nothing but a cowardly deserter – a man who stooped so low as to abandon his own motherless son.’

  Grace is shocked to the core. ‘Frank has a son?’ She guesses Collingwood caught her reaction alright. ‘What happened to the boy’s mother?’

  ‘A sad business. Poor woman was killed in an air raid up in Sunderland. Stray bomb meant for elsewhere, so I believe. The child was found in the rubble – a rather miraculous survival by all accounts. Later that autumn Whitby finally went AWOL. Without a backward glance, the man completely abandoned the care of his infant son to others.’

  Grace stands up. ‘I won’t deny I’m taken aback by what you’ve just told me. Obviously, this puts Frank in a new light, but it doesn’t mean he had anything to do with my Dennis’s death.’

  The inspector jumps to his feet to tower above her. ‘I beg to differ. Mrs Stevenson – I believe we can easily guess at his motives. With your husband well and truly out of the picture, Whitby would be in a position to take full advantage of the situation. An attractive young woman with a Free House establishment to her name and plenty of money besides – these would be powerful attractions to a penniless drifter. Let me speak freely – the blighter had already got himself into the ideal position to comfort a widow who had already taken a shine to him, so to speak.’

  Collingwood interrupts her protests. ‘You may wish to deny it, Mrs Stevenson, but let me tell you, given that Whitby can offer no alibi for the estimated time of your husband’s death, his guilt could not be more obvious. We intend to arrest the wretched man on suspicion of murder. If he hadn’t already cleared out of his lodgings, he would be behind bars as we speak.’

  The inspector’s eyes are full of scorn when he looks at her. ‘I want you to think hard before answering my next question.’ He steps a bit closer; she can smell onion on his breath. ‘Do you have any idea of his current whereabouts?’

  In the note just inside her skirt pocket, Frank’s written the time and place he’ll be waiting
for her this afternoon. Collingwood would only have to move his hand a few inches and he’d have everything he needs to arrest him.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ she says. ‘I have no idea whatsoever where Frank might be. Dennis and I were both deceived about his character. I sincerely hope you catch up with him.’

  ‘Let me assure you, Mrs Stevenson, we most certainly will; and very soon.’

  He turns on his heels. ‘Please don’t trouble yourself – we can see ourselves out.’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Frank’s quick to pay Irving Reynard for his trouble and leave the emporium. True to say he walks out a new man. It’s a short distance to the bus stop on the Strand where the evening crowds have already begun to build up. As he walks along, he practices using the stick – careful to transfer some of his weight onto it each time. Already, his hips and back feel a little out of kilter.

  He’s forced to wait in a long queue before he can board the bus. It’s packed to the gills upstairs and down. A smartly dressed chap of about forty gets to his feet in front of him. ‘Here, you look like you need a seat more than I do. Be my guest.’ Frank’s delighted that Irving’s handiwork can pass muster even close up.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ he says, trying not to overdo the croakiness in his voice. He grips the rail along the top of the seat and sits down with some care.

  Despite the traffic, he gets to Whitechapel earlier than he’d expected. The rain’s eased off at least. He thinks it would seem less suspicious for an old man to wait inside the café he’s chosen where he can take the weight of his feet. Anyone watching is likely to take Grace for his daughter.

  Frank chooses a table just inside where there’s got a good view of the street. A few of the added eyebrow hairs are protruding down into his vision and he has to feel to be sure they’re still in the right place.

  As he waits for his tea, he opens his case and takes out a small pad of writing paper and extracts the fountain pen from his jacket pocket.

  London

  4th July

  Dear Annie,

  I hope you are all well. I trust you got my last letter and the postal order I enclosed.

  When I wrote to you, I was hoping that, come September, we might go hopping together down in Kent. I’m sorry to say my situation has become more complicated since then. It pains me to let you down again like this, but it’s fair to say I’m in a spot of bother and I need to go away for a bit. Right now, I can’t say for how long it’s likely to be.

  You know I will send you money when I can. Already I can hear you saying that money is scarce compensation for my absence and I would agree with that wholeheartedly.

  Tell the boy Uncle Frank misses him and is really sorry we’re not going to see each other for a bit.

  When I get a chance, I’ll write to him separately.

  Oh, Annie – this is the last thing I want to be saying to you and I know what you must think of me because of it. The situation I’m in is not of my making and please don’t believe it if you should hear any lies about me. I swear to you I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed off.

  It’s a comfort to me to know that, from the start, you’ve always loved the three of them just the same. Now your oldest is bringing in a wage it must be a help. Lord knows I’m sure it’s a struggle for you at times, but you’ve always done a fine job as a mother and a loving home is the greatest gift anyone could wish for and I should know.

  For now, I’ll say cheerio.

  Give my love to all and kiss the boy on the forehead for me.

  Frank x

  He looks up when the shop bell tinkles. Two middle-aged women come in and begin making a ruddy fuss about which table to choose, as if any of that really mattered.

  The waitress brings him his tea and he sips at it as he watches the hand of the wall clock move a minute at a time. She should be here by now if she’s coming. There’s the crowds to think of – anything might have delayed her. It’s more than likely she didn’t get his note; probably a bad idea in the first place to leave it with Mrs Harris; what other choice did he have?

  Frank seals Annie’s letter inside its envelope and puts a stamp on it before tucking it into his pocket ready to post. He’s been slipping slowly but now his teacup is well and truly empty.

  Outside, he’s reluctant to leave. Standing in the drizzle, he thinks over what he’d written and feels sick to the stomach at the thought of having to send her such a letter.

  Ten more minutes pass and still there’s no sign of Grace. At his feet, the rain’s stained his small suitcase dark around the edges. In a few minutes, he’s going to have to go or Arthur will shut up shop. Just five minutes more – that’s all he can spare.

  The young forger comes to the door. His face clouds when he sees him. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Can you spare an old man thruppence for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Clear off, will ya?’

  He’s about to close the door when Frank grabs it. ‘Hold up, Arthur, it’s me.’

  Arthur stops struggling with the door and peers at him over his glasses. ‘Well I never.’

  ‘Glad to see I managed to fool a man who’s used to spotting fakes.’

  ‘You fooled me good an’ proper – that disguise is astonishin’ – doubt your own mother would recognise you.’ He looks him up and down again. ‘The stick’s a nice touch.’ Arthur steps aside to let him in. ‘Tell me, why go to all this trouble?’

  ‘Occurred to me I might need a different string to my bow. In fact, I’ll be needing a few extra papers for this new look of mine.’

  ‘You know yourself, they only want you Down Under if you’re young and fit – they aren’t so keen on old gits.’

  ‘Let me worry about that,’ Frank says as they walk through. ‘Right now this wig is itching me ragged. I just need you to take my ruddy photo so I can take the wretched thing off and have a good scratch.’

  The man frowns. ‘All in good time. First, let’s get one thing straight – even if you want to go capering around – I’m not doin’ any of this for fun and this’ll cost you extra.’

  ‘Don’t let my disguise fool you – I’m perfectly serious.’ Frank takes off his hat and coat and lays his cane over the top.

  Arthur sits down at his desk and removes his glasses. He puts on a pair of half-moon specs, hooks them over his ears and bends to examine his own handiwork. Satisfied, he passes the passport over for Frank’s approval. ‘Think you’ll agree that’s indistinguishable from the real thing,’ he says. The look of pride on his face makes him seem altogether more boyish. ‘You were talkin’ about a travelling companion on your trip – so where’s this mystery woman of yours?’

  ‘A good question,’ Frank tells him. ‘Right now, I’ve no flaming idea. She could be anywhere.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  From two hundred yards away, the sickly smell fills the air and gets stronger at every step. A stranger would know for certain they were approaching a biscuit factory. Despite the fact that it’s spitting with rain, Grace is dressed up in a pale-yellow frock with an orange cardie. She’s topped it off with a particularly bright scarf – all red and pink roses and is wearing her new sunglasses for good measure. Much as she’s tempted, Grace is careful not to look behind her – not even a quick peek.

  There it is, straight ahead. The yard outside is empty and full of puddles. Pigeons line the gutters; their pale droppings smeared halfway down the height of the blackened walls. She knows from experience that once that hooter goes, they’ll come pouring outside and rush away on foot or on bikes. Some of the younger girls walk to the shops in gaggles. With it being a Friday, knocking-off time is an hour earlier.

  There’s only another ten minutes to go but she can’t just go waltzing in there asking for Dot. Instead she paces the open yard. She knows the lie of the land – had worked here herself for a few months before taking the job in the pub. Round the back, there’s a flight of metal steps that will take her up to the landing by the ladies’
toilets. Every Friday, they place a massive bin up there for all the dirty uniforms. She just hopes Dot doesn’t hand hers to somebody else today.

  The hooter goes – a long wail not unlike an air raid warning. Grace waits for the first wave of running workers to swamp her. People come streaming out of every exit, all at a crazy pace like they can’t bear another single second in the place. In all the chaos, it’s easy to nip round the back and up the steps.

  The landing is full of women. One or two take notice of her and give her clothes a quizzical look but they’re in too much of a rush to care about an outsider being present. She spots her friend amongst the other girls. ‘Dot!’ She pushes through to grab the girl’s arm and march her straight into one of the storerooms. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘What?’ Dot frowns. ‘Why? What the hell’s goin’ on?’

  ‘In here.’ Grace flicks on the light switch and leans against the door she’s just closed. ‘I’ll explain later.’ She keeps her voice low. ‘I need you to swap clothes with me right now.’

  ‘No, I won’t do it.’ Dot just stands there with her hands planted on her hips. ‘Not unless you explain.’

  Grace unties her headscarf and hangs it over one of the hooks on the back of the door. ‘I think, in fact I’m pretty certain, the Old Bill’s followin’ me.’ She takes off her cardie and then steps out of her frock. ‘I need you to pretend to be me, so they follow you instead.’

  ‘What the hell have you gone an’ done, Grace?’ Dot shakes her head and retreats to the back of the room next to the shelves of clean overalls.

  ‘Look, I’m not askin’ you to do anythin’ much,’ Grace tells her. ‘The two of us will start walking back towards your place together and then we’ll say our goodbyes, and then you – lookin’ like me – will go off by yourself somewhere.’

  ‘Where am I suppose’ to go, for pity’s sake?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It’s so quiet out there they must have all left. ‘You could go to the park or go an’ do a bit of shoppin’, if you’d rather. Let them follow you around for a bit, then you just go home.’ She stands there in her underclothes. ‘Go on, Dot – take that blouse off, will ya?’