‘You leave him to me. I can’t stand bullies. Is that all?’
As I left him it occurred to me to add another name to the list, Jack Sumner. Why would he want me out of the picture?
I found I was in a much better mood when I left the boss’s office and made my way downstairs. Dyer had made it pretty obvious I wasn’t going to get a big team on this one and I’d have to manage as best I could with Sawyer’s help but I was happy enough with that for the time being. On the first floor landing I bumped into Terry Gleeson and I knew my good humour wouldn’t last for long.
‘Morning, James. Any chance we can have a word?’
Gleeson peered at me with his piggy eyes. He was breathing hard through his mouth and his flabby chest was heaving, even though he’d only walked the few yards from his desk. He was overweight, lazy and bent, and Gleeson and I had a history of being on opposite sides of the fence. To me, he always seemed to want to take the easy way out. If he could rough up some villain to make him admit to a crime he hadn’t committed, Gleeson didn’t mind, as long as he made an arrest. I’d never witnessed him planting evidence but there were rumours around the station and I wouldn’t put it past the man to do it. I sometimes wonder why people like him even join the police.
‘What can I do for you, Terry? Is there something not clear in the beatings case files?’
‘I’ve not had a chance to look at them yet. I’ve been busy.’
I snorted. ‘Busy? You do appreciate this is important, don’t you? We’ve just hanged two fellers and they were only the heavies. There’s someone much smarter behind this and they won’t stop until we find them.’
Gleeson leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head.
‘Personally, I can’t see why we’re bothering, it’s just a waste of time all this Jewish stuff. Hitler has it about right if you ask me.’
I wanted to break his neck more at that minute than ever before, and I’d come close a few times. Instead, I drew a deep breath.
‘Well, if it’s not about the case, what did you want to talk about?’
‘It’s this Barleigh shooting. I hear you’re still digging around.’
‘You make it sound like I shouldn’t be.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t. It’s giving me a bad name.’
I almost laughed out loud. ‘How’s that, Terry? Why is it giving you a bad name just because I’m trying to investigate a case properly? Isn’t it possible you missed something?’
‘I didn’t miss a bloody thing. The local man was on the scene quickly enough and provided a bloody good report. He even took photos, for God’s sake. There was no need even to go all the way to the house to see what had happened.’
‘Heaven forbid you lift your backside out of your chair and do some proper detective work, Gleeson. Anyway, I don’t have much option. Dyer’s asked me to have a look at it to please the higher-ups. I can already see there’s some things don’t add up. You should never have signed off on it and allowed the Coroner to close the case.’
He leaned across his desk and pointed a podgy finger in my direction.
‘I agreed with Sawyer’s conclusion. And he was right! Tom Barleigh was killed by his mother and she and the girlfriend shot themselves. You’re just groping around in the dark trying to make a name for yourself.’
‘Grow up. We both know you should have looked into the circumstances more than you did, rather than trusting the findings of a raw country copper. That’s why the boss asked me to look at it. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t trust your judgement on anything important.’
Gleeson looked like I’d slapped him but then gathered himself. The piggy eyes narrowed even further.
‘We’ll soon see about that, Given. You’ll be back here in a few days with your tail between your legs and your career in tatters. With Jack Sumner coming after you from one direction and me from the other, you won’t stand a chance. You definitely don’t want either of us as your enemy. Just you see!’
I turned and walked out of his office. Although he was full of bluster, he did have more time with Dyer than I did and he’d be criticising me at every chance he got. The last thing I needed just now was the boss on my back. Even though I didn’t like Gleeson, he did get convictions and the Superintendent and those above appreciated him despite his flaws. I’d have to watch my back.
Seven
Sawyer seemed like a bright copper and being from the area he’d pick up a bit more on the local stories than I would. He seemed to be relishing his involvement in a serious case, perhaps seeing a promotion in it somewhere down the line. He’d gone off with a definite spring in his step when I sent him to ask some questions around the village in the afternoon. We were now in the Victory sharing what we’d found. I eyed his pint with more than a little jealousy but stuck to my Vimto.
‘Did you know him — Tom?’
‘Not well, he was a couple of years older than me and we’d not exactly be in the same social circles. Why do you ask?’
‘Just trying to get a picture of the kind of man he was and why his mother should feel strongly enough to kill him.’
‘I’ve only picked up she was totally against his marriage, several people have mentioned it.’
‘Even so, she doesn’t seem to be the kind of woman who’d murder anyone, let alone her son. But if she did, why didn’t she just shoot Jenny, which would have been more logical? We’re told she was totally devoted to Tom, so there’d be no sense at all in her taking a shotgun to him.’
Sawyer and I tossed some more ideas around on Lady Isabelle’s possible motivation, none of which came to anything, though he was still sticking with his original leanings. He’d be no use to me if he carried on without considering any other options.
‘The more I look at this, the more I’m convinced it can’t have been the way it first looked. We can’t see any reason for Lady Isabelle to murder Tom and the idea that Jenny Bamford would kill herself seems pretty unlikely in the circumstances. I want you to start treating this case as if we’re trying to find a different killer.’
‘But, sir —’
‘No “buts”, I’ve decided. So let’s look at what you’ve been doing. Did you learn much this afternoon?’
‘I dug around the village mostly, trying to find out if any locals could throw any light. Problem is, because I know them, I’m expected to stay and have a cuppa and a slice of cake at every house. It took an age to get through half a dozen interviews.’
He paused and took a sip of his beer and flipped through his notebook.
‘And?’
‘Sorry, sir, there were a couple of interesting things came up and I was just trying to get them straight in my head. It was mainly just the usual village tittle-tattle but several people said there’d been a young feller hanging around, asking for information on Grovestock House — who worked there, how long the family had been there, that kind of thing.’
‘Did they say what he looked like?’
‘People are rubbish at descriptions, aren’t they, sir? Some said he was tall, some average height and build. Half of them reckoned he was blond, the other half dark-haired. The only thing everyone agreed on was he looked a bit down at heel, as though he’d been sleeping rough.’
‘Is he still around?’
‘Everyone I spoke to said they’d only seen him in the village in the couple of days before the deaths and he’s now disappeared again. I did bump into Mrs Edwards, her husband farms out at Foxes Spinney, and she was complaining of things going missing. Eggs, bread from the kitchen, milk, that kind of thing. Her neighbours have had the same problem. She said one of them had a couple of blankets and her husband’s socks taken from the washing line. I suppose it could be this bloke if he’s laying low somewhere.’
‘Right, I think we need to find this man.’
‘Another thing came up, sir. I was approached by Billy Sharp’s mother. She had a note from him a couple of days after he disappeared. She wouldn’t let me keep it, said it was importa
nt to her, but I copied it down. Basically, he’d got into a bit of trouble and had to leave the area for a while. Didn’t say what the trouble was, nor where he was going. Come to think of it, I suppose it might even be Billy who’s pinching stuff if he’s hiding locally.’
‘It might. What did his mum want you to do?’
‘She kept on and on how her Billy was a gentle lad and wouldn’t harm anyone. She was frightened out of her wits and wanted me to look for him. I told her we also wanted to find him in case he could tell us anything in connection to the deaths. This seemed to put her in even more of a flap so I said he wasn’t necessarily in trouble, but we needed to speak to him to straighten a few things out. I thought it best to put it like that in case the lad shows up again and then she’d try to get him to come to see us.’
‘That’s good work. Anything else?’
‘Not much. The rest was, as I said, village gossip. Rumours regarding Sir Arthur and Isabelle, secret affairs, Tom’s accident and so on. Everyone round here’s known the family for years, but there was nothing much out of the ordinary.’
I found myself feeling jealous of this deep-rooted sense of place. Sawyer, like the Barleighs and most of their neighbours, could trace their families back for generations in the same village or hamlet, perhaps even the same house. How different to my own family.
‘It’s the gossip we want, John, the “tittle-tattle” as you put it, and you’re the man to get it. So go through it again in your notebook and in your head and see what little gems you can pull out. If there’s anything you think worth following up then do it. Call in favours if you need to, just so we can make some progress.’
Sawyer finished his pint and left for the night, leaving me to a final Vimto and my thoughts. I was pulling my playing cards out of my jacket pocket, where I always carry them, when Cudlip came in.
‘Telephone for you, Mr Given. I think it’s your boss.’
It was indeed Superintendent Dyer, and he wasn’t in the best frame of mind when I told him we still hadn’t got very far.
‘Listen, James, I’ve had the Chief Constable on my back again. The press are still giving him a hard time and he wants some answers. He’s told me to give you another couple of days to wrap it up. Then we’re going with the official line that after additional investigations by one of our top detectives we still conclude our original findings, etc., etc. So you’d best come up with something new shortly or the case is closed.’
I protested for a few minutes but deep down I knew he was right. We had to draw the line under it sometime, so I told him I’d do my best, then returned to my nightcap, my lonely hand of patience and my memories.
The next morning, I decided to take a trip to Birmingham to meet with Alan Haleson and spend some time with my parents. The drive through the beautiful mist-cloaked countryside to the railway station at Wootton Wawen was restful. Almost every tree and copse provided a cornucopia of red, brown and yellow, and it was with a little disappointment when I arrived at the station in something less than fifteen minutes. My train wasn’t due for another half an hour so I walked into the village to find a shop, hoping to buy a newspaper for my journey. There was one next door to the post office and I could see the papers had been delivered but still lay tied up with string on the counter. The shop itself was deserted until a woman, in her sixties, came through, huffing and puffing.
‘Oh my, sir, I’m so sorry. I’m all behind with myself this morning. I do hope you’ve not been waiting long.’
‘Not at all, I’ve a little time to spare yet. Could I take a copy of the Telegraph and Post when you’re ready?’
The woman busied herself dragging the package across her counter then fussed for what seemed like minutes trying to locate a pair of scissors to free the contents. I handed her my penknife, for fear she might disappear into her back room to continue her search. The poor woman then had no change to hand and I was beginning to think I’d never catch the train. Throughout the entire performance she chatted away, digging for any vestiges of gossip she’d later be able to share with her customers.
‘You’re not from round here, are you?’
‘No, I’m not. I’m on my way into Birmingham and thought I’d take a stroll whilst I had time on my hands. It’s such a lovely morning.’
‘Staying nearby then?’
‘Priors Allenford.’
‘Ah, it’s become quite famous with the recent deaths nearby, hasn’t it? That poor family, so much tragedy in their lives, one generation after the other. It almost seems like they’re cursed.’
‘Do you know the Barleighs, then?’
She told me she’d worked at Grovestock House for a year or so towards the end of the Great War.
‘I only knew the son, Tom, as a baby, but I knew his grandparents and met Sir Arthur when he came back from the Front. He seemed like a poor shattered thing and locked himself away in his room for weeks at first. By all accounts he’d been a handsome man when he left, but by the time I met him his face was burned something awful. It was Lady Isabelle who pulled him out of it. She must have been in a terrible way, to do what she did.’
By the time she’d finally handed over my newspaper and the few coppers change, I had to run back down the street. I got to the station with seconds to spare before the train arrived, its green engine gleaming and billowing steam round the platform. I claimed the one empty compartment, where I removed my topcoat and settled down to read the paper. It was full of speculation on the diplomatic developments with Germany, though opinion was divided between praising the Prime Minister for pulling the country back from the brink of war and damning him for delaying the inevitable.
The journey took almost an hour and I played patience much of the way, as we went trundling through fields and open country broken only occasionally by leafy villages, until we hit the outer suburbs. These seemed to stretch forever, merging eventually with the bustle and grime of the metropolis. A few minutes before reaching our destination the train was plunged into darkness as it entered the long tunnel taking it under the city centre. This feat of engineering was originally a simple cutting but had been covered over and built upon many years before using typical Victorian ingenuity and lust for land. The effect was now impressive as the streets disappeared, for the last mile, before the train emerged once more into the light and the fabulously grand Snow Hill station. What the Victorians had achieved with the tunnel had been emulated by their Edwardian successors in this grandest of celebrations of the age of railways. One couldn’t fail to be impressed by the buzz of activity, the smoke, the steam, the tiled platforms and the ornate booking hall, said to be the finest in Europe.
I left the station and turned into Livery Street, heading up the hill and over the canal before turning into a dingy side street on the left-hand side. The buildings here backed on to waterside wharfs and were of dark red brick with large windows, suitable for the delicate work of stitching for hours on end, from dawn till dusk. Up and down this street young boys carried bolts of cloth across their small shoulders from the dozens of barrows into the depths of the workshops. And every one of them appeared to be Jewish. Small carters’ lorries bearing the names of towns across the country were piled high with boxes taking the finished goods to emporiums in high streets from Penzance to Pitlochry. Birmingham’s sweatshops supply caps to factory workers in Lancashire and plus-fours to gentleman anglers on the River Tweed, hats to titled ladies and waistcoats to farm labourers. An odd kind of equality in an unequal world.
Halfway down, I stopped outside one small factory and even above the street noise I could hear the incessant rattle of sewing machines. Over the door was a basic sign proclaiming “Dov Geffen, All Manner Of Tailoring, Bespoke Suits Our Speciality”. The door opened into a large room where the racket was deafening. Twenty men were lined up in three rows, their machines driven by belts ripping around pulleys close to the ceiling. Each man wore a yarmulke and was enclosed in his work area by piles of cut cloth and baskets containing “al
l manner of tailoring”. On one side of the room, positioned part way up the wall, was an office with windows set so the occupant could oversee this hive of activity.
I climbed the wooden steps leading up to the office and went inside. Huddled over a set of ledgers and fingering a well-worn abacus was an elderly man who turned and glanced up as I entered. I paused briefly and looked him in the eye before I spoke.
‘Shalom Aleichem, Father. Gut Shabbos.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Do I need a reason to visit my family?’
‘No, son, of course you don’t. But you have to admit it’s become a little unusual.’
I couldn’t think of a way to respond to this. My father’s question had shaken my equilibrium. Why had I come? On the train journey I’d told myself it was just to see they were safe. There were such awful stories coming out of Germany in the newspapers that I was afraid the trouble might spill over again into English cities. Even three or four years ago, Mosley and his black-shirted thugs had been allowed to parade the streets until the tide was turned by the people of London’s East End. This danger hadn’t gone away and there was still Fascist violence in working class districts, even here in Birmingham. Like the brutal killing of the shopkeeper carried out by Peter Bishop and his accomplice.
‘You know I come over when I can, but I’ve had a lot on at work lately.’
Like most fathers he had little idea of the detail of my job and I could see he was at a loss to see how the work of a rural police officer could be described as ‘busy’. I knew if I was to have his approval to leave next day I’d have to tell him more of the case currently occupying my time. But it would need to wait until later.
‘I know you visit when you’re able, Jacob, and we’re always pleased to see you. Especially your mother.’
A smile cracked his face as he acknowledged the immense understatement.
Father and I closed up the office and machines at around half past two, as is his custom on Sabbath, and climbed the stairs to the family accommodation up above. The rooms were quite substantial, occupying the whole of the first floor. It struck me how lucky they were compared to many who worked in the area and had to make do with a single room in a basement, or were forced, through poverty, to share a house with several other families. From the moment he’d started work Father had saved almost every penny he could until he’d been able to buy the workshop and set up on his own.
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