Tanner Trilogy 03 - Backstreet Child

by Harry Bowling

  Joe grinned as he listened. ‘They’ll be comin’ fer Frank Dolan next,’ he joked.

  Joe’s words proved to be prophetic, for two weeks later the police called at the Salmon Lane yard.

  ‘We understand that you’ve got a Frank Dolan working here as a driver,’ the policeman said.

  Carrie nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. Why, what’s ’e done?’

  ‘What time is he due back?’ the policeman asked, ignoring her question.

  ‘’E’s on the food contract an’ it’s all local work. ’E’ll be back in the yard inside the hour, I would say,’ Carrie answered.

  The two policeman nodded and left.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ Joe asked as he came over from the lorry shed.

  ‘They was askin’ about Frank Dolan,’ Carrie told him. ‘I ’ope’e’s not in any trouble.’

  At twenty minutes past four Frank Dolan drove into the yard and climbed down from the lorry. ‘Shall I park it up, Joe?’ he called out.

  Carrie came out from the office and beckoned him over. ‘Frank, I’ve ’ad the police in a short while ago,’ she said. ‘They was askin’ for yer.’

  ‘Oh my Gawd!’ he gasped, grabbing his large canvas bag.

  Just then the yard seemed to be filled with policemen, some of them in plain clothes. Two jumped from a police car but were not quick enough as Frank threw his bag in their path and scampered to the rear of the yard. As they regained their footing, others were running into the yard and giving chase. Frank Dolan climbed on top of the shed and clambered across the roof which backed onto an alley. As he was about to jump down, he saw two policemen in the alley waiting. His escape route was blocked. He jumped back down into the yard and was immediately pounced on by the policemen. For a short while he struggled violently, but when he realised that it was useless he let himself be handcuffed and bundled into a police car. As the car drew out of the yard, he nodded to Carrie and Joe who were standing by the office.

  ‘What’s ’e wanted for?’ Joe asked a detective who seemed to be in charge of the operation.

  ‘He’s a deserter, for a start,’ the detective replied.

  ‘But I registered ’im at the labour exchange an’ I phoned up’is last employer fer a reference,’ Carrie said looking puzzled. ‘They told me ’e was put off because the firm lost all their lorries in the bombin’.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ the policeman replied. ‘Frank Dolan was put off in November, but that fella wasn’t Frank Dolan. We found the real Frank Dolan a few weeks ago. He was lying in a back alley off the Old Kent Road with his head caved in. The man we just arrested was Arthur Threadgold. He’s wanted in Liverpool, Manchester and Bristol, and God knows where else. You’ve been lucky. Arthur Threadgold’s a very dangerous man.’

  ‘Tell me, as a matter of interest. Why did it take yer so long ter get onter this Threadgold character?’ Joe asked. ‘If ’e killed Frank Dolan an’ assumed the man’s identity, yer should’ve been able ter find ’im when ’e was registered fer work at the labour exchange. ’E’s bin wiv us fer some time now. An’ anuvver fing.’Ow comes ’e knew where Frank Dolan last worked?’

  The detective buttoned up his coat and dusted a sleeve with the palm of his hand. ‘Dolan, Threadgold and another character by the name of Thomas Westlake all lodged at the same working men’s hostel in Tooley Street and the three of them got pally,’ he began. ‘Threadgold borrowed Dolan’s driving licence and identity card to get the job with you and then he returned them to him. Dolan knew that Threadgold was a deserter, but he wasn’t worried. He intended to go up north to work in munitions. Anyway, one night Dolan and Westlake were playing cards at a pub in the Old Kent Road and they fell out over the stakes. Westlake followed Dolan outside and hit him over the head with a brick. He dragged the body round into an alley nearby and then took Dolan’s wallet and money. There was nothing on the body when it was discovered, which made the identification difficult. Dolan wasn’t working at the time he was killed and he apparently had no dependants.’

  ‘So nobody reported ’im missin’,’ Joe cut in.

  The detective nodded. ‘Exactly. All we had to go on was the victim’s blood group. Anyway, last week we arrested Westlake for being drunk and disorderly and as is usual we logged the man’s possessions. He had a leather wallet on him with the initials “F.D.” embossed in gold leaf on the front. When we asked Westlake about it he told us that he’d found the wallet in the street. Fortunately for us our desk sergeant noticed a small dark stain on the outside of the wallet and he suggested it might be blood, so we sent it away and the results proved him right. What the test also told us was that the blood was group O, and that there was a thumb print in the stain. The thumb print belonged to Westlake, but his blood group was AB. He must have handled the wallet before the blood dried on it.

  ‘We were aware that we had an unidentified murder victim in cold storage and when we checked the files we found that that man’s blood group was O. Anyway, when we confronted Westlake with the evidence we had, he admitted everything. He also told us about the deal Threadgold did with Dolan. Maybe he was hoping that the judge would take that into consideration. The rest was easy. We checked with the local labour exchanges and found that a Frank Dolan was registered as working with your firm.’

  Joe shook his head slowly. ‘If this Westlake bloke ’adn’t bin picked up on a minor offence, you’d still be in the dark, and Threadgold would still be workin’ fer us,’ he said.

  The detective smiled. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Arthur Threadgold is a murderer,’ he said calmly. ‘He’s wanted in Manchester for killing a grocer, in Liverpool for the murder of a coalman, and in Bristol for the killing of a linen draper. All those victims had one thing in common.’

  ‘What was that?’ Joe asked, intrigued.

  ‘They all employed him.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gloria Simpson’s top-floor flat was very much the same as her previous one. It had two rooms, with a tiny scullery and toilet leading off the small sitting room. Her old flat on the floor below had been taken over by another street girl whom she knew as Muriel. She worked the same pubs along the riverfront in Rotherhithe, where they had solicited clients from among the Scandinavian and Russian seamen when the timber ships sailed into the Surrey Docks. The destruction of the Rotherhithe docks had forced some of the local street girls to move away, but the options for older women such as Gloria and Muriel were limited. Both women rented their flats from Sammy MacCarthy, who was the caretaker and handyman of a row of three-storeyed Victorian houses in Norwegian Street. Sammy was a stockily built, bushy-haired man in his mid-forties. He was known locally to be a hard, no-nonsense character and he supplemented his income by poncing for the local street women, making introductions, warning off the undesirables, and taking his cut from the proceeds.

  Sammy was fixing a new sash cord into a downstairs window when Gloria came walking along the narrow street which backed onto the dock wall. ‘ ’Ow yer doin’, Sammy?’ she called out to him.

  The large man slipped the claw hammer into his wide leather belt and jerked his thumb towards the house as he turned towards Gloria. ‘I’ll be ’appier when this family move out,’ he growled. ‘They’re on notice ter quit.’

  Gloria sighed and shook her head. She knew of the couple, who seemed to spend most of their lives fighting each other round a tribe of unruly children every time they came back from the pub. Sammy had had to replace at least two windows recently, and she could understand his irritation.

  ‘Anyfing doin’?’ she asked him.

  ‘There’s a big do at the Norwegian Club by the tunnel on Saturday evenin’,’ he replied, scratching the back of his hand. ‘I’ll see if I can get yer an invite.’

  Gloria slipped her hands into her long flared coat. ‘I’d appreciate it, Sammy,’ she said, starting to walk on.

  ‘By the way, someone called round ter see yer this mornin’,’ he told her. ‘She said ’er name was Lola.’

&
nbsp; ‘Did she leave any message?’ Gloria asked him.

  ‘She said she’d come back later, that’s all,’ Sammy replied, going back to his task.

  Gloria hurried up the short flight of stone steps to her front door and let herself into the house. The place smelt of mildew and boiled cabbage as she climbed the three flights of stairs to her small flat. How different it was from the house she had grown accustomed to in Ilford. She sighed sadly as she took out her door key.

  The late evening sun was dipping down behind the rooftops as Gloria sat drinking tea and staring out over the ravaged Surrey Docks and the quiet river. She had not seen Lola since the day she was thrown out of Frank Galloway’s house. What did Lola want her for? Gloria wondered as she sipped her tea. Maybe she had got too worked up about the whole thing. Maybe she had been wrong in suspecting that Frank would do any harm to the O’Reilly boy. After all, Frank Galloway was a respected businessman with everything to lose. He would probably have expected his father to take care of the grandson anyway.

  An hour later Lola called again and she had news. ‘The O’Reilly boy’s got most o’ the money. All your ex-fella got was the transport business,’ she said, still puffing from the long climb up the stairs. ‘Mary O’Reilly told me yesterday when I called round ter see ’er.’

  ‘She’s out of ’ospital, then?’

  ‘She came out the day before yesterday.’

  ‘’Ow is she?’

  ‘The woman still looks very ill.’

  Gloria stroked her chin thoughtfully. ‘Did Tony go ter the readin’ o’ the will?’ she asked.

  Lola nodded. ‘They gave ’im leave but ’e ’ad ter go straight back, by all accounts.’

  ‘Well, at least ’e’s safe while ’e’s away,’ Gloria remarked.

  ‘Yer still don’t fink ’e’ll come to any ’arm, do yer?’ Lola asked.

  Gloria shrugged her shoulders. ‘I dunno. I wouldn’t trust Frank Galloway as far as I could see ’im, not after the way ’e beat me up.’

  Lola sipped her tea. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much, luv,’ she said. ‘Don’t ferget the O’Reilly boy’s in the army. ’E won’t be able ter touch the money yet awhile. Frank Galloway knows that.’E’ll be ’opin’ the lad gets killed, I should fink.’

  Gloria nodded. ‘Yer prob’ly right,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, we’re well out of it. What Galloway does now is no concern of ours.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lola said, passing over a packet of Woodbines. ‘Jus’ fink on the bright side. At least you didn’t tell that ponce about Tony bein’ a Galloway. If yer ’ad ’a’ done, it could ’ave caused trouble fer us later.’

  Gloria puffed on her cigarette. ‘Anyway, ’ow’s business?’ she asked.

  Lola waved her hand in a theatrical gesture. ‘Don’t ask,’ she smiled. ‘I’m stuck wiv me ole regulars, an’ they won’t make me rich. What about you?’

  Gloria shrugged. ‘The trade’s dead round ’ere since the docks copped it. I’m seriously finkin’ o’ turnin’ it in. I’d be better orf workin’ in a factory.’

  ‘Yer could do it part-time,’ Lola joked. ‘Jus’ fink o’ the fellas yer could ’ave be’ind the boxes.’

  The two women sat chatting for a while, then as the evening darkened, Gloria drew the blinds. ‘C’mon, Lola,’ she said, ‘let’s go up the Samson. We might get lucky all of a sudden.’

  As the spring days became warmer, Bermondsey folk began to feel optimistic. The invasion scare had all but abated and the nights were less dangerous. Occasionally the raiders returned, but the damage was less severe, and the casualty rate was lower. Other cities were being bombed, however, and when people gathered in pubs or at the markets they sympathised with the plight of their fellow Britons.

  ‘Those poor sods in Plymouth copped it last night, I see,’ the greengrocer said to Maisie.

  ‘Yeah, I ’eard it on the news,’ she replied. ‘Gawd ’elp ’em.’

  ‘Bristol got it last night,’ the butcher told Sadie Sullivan while he was chopping the meat.

  Sadie winced as the cleaver whistled down dangerously near the butcher’s fingers. ‘You mind what yer doin’,’ she told him.

  ‘Yus, they’re all gettin’ it,’ the butcher went on regardless. ‘Glasgow, Liverpool, Birmingham. We know what it’s like fer’em, don’t we, luv?’

  Sadie picked up the wrapped meat and made her way back home. The May sunshine was pleasant and she felt happy. She had saved her meat ration for the weekly gathering of her clan. Her boys would be coming round with their families that evening and Billy would be there too. It would be a rare get-together and Sadie was planning a feast.

  Maudie Mycroft returned home from the market feeling anything but happy that morning. She had been informed by her husband Ernest that from now on he was going to sleep at home in his own bed. They had been spending their nights sleeping on the uncomfortable shelter bunks, Ernest taking his turn outside with the other men, but now he was adamant.

  ‘I’m sure these are bug bites,’ he had told Maudie.

  ‘It’s just a spring rash,’ she replied.

  ‘Spring rash me arse. They’re bites,’ he growled. ‘You can sleep down the shelter if yer like, but I’m takin’ a chance in me own bed from now on. Let’s face it, we don’t get a raid every night, an’ besides, we can always pop over the shelter if it does get too bad.’

  Maudie sighed in irritation as she hurried home. The way he had talked, it was as though he considered popping over to the shelter through the bombs and shrapnel the same as taking a stroll down the market. Ernest seemed to be getting very dopey in his old age. The marks on his arms did not resemble a spring rash, though, she had to admit, resigning herself to being dug out from the wreckage of her home one night soon.

  Frank Galloway walked through the spring sunshine with his face set firm as he turned into Ferris Street, a little backwater off the New Kent Road. The twin rows of terraced houses showed the scars of the blitz and most of them had their windows boarded up. Slates were missing from the roofs and there were workmen replacing some front doors further along the turning. Frank stopped at a corner house where the street was bisected by another little road and he glanced up at the number before knocking.

  ‘Mrs O’Reilly?’ he asked as the frail figure opened the door.

  ‘That’s right,’ she replied, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Frank smiled disarmingly at her. ‘My name’s Frank Galloway, Geoffrey’s brother.’

  For a few moments Mary O’Reilly looked at him closely, and then her eyes showed a glimmer of recognition. ‘It’s bin a few years, but I remember yer face,’ she said, her fingertips held up to her mouth. ‘Would yer like ter come in?’

  Frank followed her through the dark passageway and into the small parlour. He noticed the row of medicine bottles standing on the untidy dresser and he could smell chloroform. Grey ashes from the previous night’s fire still filled the grate and there was a grubby blanket thrown over the one easy chair by the hearth.

  Mary turned to him and motioned to an upright chair beside the bare wooden table. ‘Yer must excuse the place,’ she said in a tired voice. ‘I’m waitin’ fer me friend ter call. She does a bit o’ cleanin’ fer me, I’m too ill ter do it meself, yer see.’

  Frank sat down and watched as Mary lowered herself painfully into the easy chair. ‘I remember you too,’ he said with a smile. ‘You were with Geoffrey at my wedding. I remember you dancing with him.’

  Mary nodded slowly. ‘That was a long time ago,’ she replied. ‘We all get older.’

  Frank reached into the inside of his coat and took out a large envelope which he laid down on the table. ‘Geoffrey and I were very close, you know,’ he began. ‘It came as a big shock to find out that Geoffrey had a son. There’s a few things here that belonged to my brother. I thought you and your son might like them.’

  Mary watched as he pulled a batch of photographs and papers from the envelope. ‘These were taken when we were very young. There’s the
letter we got from Geoffrey’s commanding officer and another from his platoon officer,’ he went on. ‘This is the last photo he had taken. It was his platoon, just before his last action.’

  Mary took the proffered photographs and letters, her eyes squinting in the dull light as she studied them. Frank watched her closely. She hardly seemed to show any emotion at all. While she read the letters, he glanced around the room. There was a framed photograph of her soldier son standing on one side of the high mantelshelf and another of him in civilian clothes at the opposite end. Behind her was a sepia photograph of Geoffrey in uniform set in an ebony frame, and Frank recognised it as the one that had once stood in the large front room at Tyburn Square.

  ‘Yer farvver gave that ter me,’ Mary said, noting that he was staring hard at the picture.

  ‘I thought I recognised it,’ Frank replied. ‘My father treasured that photo.’