by Andy Conway
A man passed, hunched over, cloth cap low.
“You might not want to mention that out loud,” she said.
“I need to talk to her, alone,” he said. “Find out stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like why she’s so scared of her father.”
“Maybe she knows he’s going to kill her.”
“No,” he said. “It wasn’t that. It was something else.”
“Look!” She pointed up the street. “It’s the electric tram.”
It came speeding past them, faster than she thought it could ever travel, then slowed abruptly and stopped a hundred yards away.
“I wish we had trams still,” she said. “They’re so much better than the buses.”
Danny was looking back at the house. “I’m going to go round the back. Try and talk to her. You stay here, keep an eye out.”
“Okay. I’ll phone you if anything happens.”
He looked at her like she’d escaped from the loony bin herself.
“What?” she said.
“Rachel. Seeing as the mobile phone mast won’t be built for another ninety years, I don’t think you’re going to get much of a signal.”
She reddened. “I was joking,” she said, hoping he’d believe her. She watched him cross the road and walk up a side street a few doors away.
— 24 —
DANNY WALKED ROUND to the rear of the row of houses, which were all fenced at the back. The side street revealed a tree-lined square behind the houses, with a single gaslamp casting an eerie glow. It seemed a square that was an afterthought. No one came here to walk, it was too small for that. No houses looked onto it. It was a sullen patch of grass edged with trees that was destined to be developed into houses one day, because this forgotten patch of land was taking up valuable space.
He counted off the chimney stacks along the row till he came to what must have been the rear of number 12, and peered over the chest high wooden fence, looking up at the windows of the house.
A figure was at one of the rear windows – a woman, gazing out across the gloom, her face resting on her fist. He recognized her immediately, his mind flooding with memories of their brief encounter. Glancing around, he waved, but she didn’t stir. She couldn’t see him in the dark.
After a minute or more, she disappeared from the window and he breathed again. He looked around in panic for some small stones, scooped some up from the grass verge and threw the first at the window. The first four missed and slapped the wall. The fourth hit the window with a dull crack.
He cringed, aware he was in danger of smashing the window.
Amy came to the window again, peering out curiously.
He waved and wondered if she would be scared and call her father.
She waved back.
In a moment, he’d skipped over the fence and padded down the garden. Her window was above the outhouse and he scooted up the drainpipe. She opened her window as he stood up to face her.
“Hello, Amy Parker,” he grinned, panting from the sudden exertion.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“I came to see you. To talk.”
“I’ll be in frightful trouble if my father sees you.”
He frowned. How was he going to explain this to her? She would never believe him if he told her. “Is your father ill?”
“Why do you ask that? You’re a very forward man, Danny Pearce.”
“Do you mind that?”
She smiled for the first time. “No. I should, but I don’t. Why is that?”
“Because you like me?”
“I’m sure I don’t even know you.”
It was true, and he had more important things to tell her, but he couldn’t help feeling drunk in her presence.
“And I don’t know you,” he said. “But I feel like I do.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly how it feels. It’s very odd.” She looked back at her bedroom door. “Can you come back again? On Saturday?”
“Saturday,” he said. He had no idea what time she would be murdered on Saturday. “That’s too late.”
She frowned again. “I have the oddest sensation when I see you.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t describe it. The other day, at Mr Rieper’s funeral, when I first saw you. It was as if you’d travelled a thousand miles, just to see me.”
He took her emotion eagerly, as if it were a love letter. “Yes. I felt that too.”
“What does it mean?” she said.
He had an idea. “What if I’d been sent here, somehow, to protect you.”
“From what?” she said, but he could see in her eyes that she already suspected it herself.
“Yes. What if something terrible was going to happen and I was sent here to stop it happening?”
“Don’t be silly.”
He reached out and touched her hands, resting on the window sill. “You feel it too. I can tell.”
She flinched with sudden panic and looked behind at a sound. “You can’t stay here. Come again, Saturday.”
She went to close the window.
“Wait,” he said. He took out his phone.
“What’s that?” she said.
“It’s a camera. Stay still.” He snapped her.
“You’re playing a silly joke on me, Danny Pearce. I’ve a good mind not to speak to you at all.” She closed the window and shooed him away.
“You have to,” he said.
She put her hand to the window pane and he placed his own against it. Her eyes were full of fear and wonder. Yes, something bad was going to happen. She knew it. He watched her walk back across her room and disappear into the house.
He jumped down off the outhouse roof and crouched against it, looking at his phone and the shadowy image on the screen: Amy Parker’s ghostly face.
— 25 —
RACHEL LOITERED ON the corner, trying not to look shifty, standing just outside the pool of light offered by the nearest gaslamp. It gave off enough light for her to see, but she was in shadow.
A few people passed by: a man who tipped his hat to her, which she thought was sweet; another who ignored her, which was disappointing; and a couple, the woman averting her eyes, the man shooting her a dirty look. She wondered if there was something about her costume that was inappropriate. The dress was a good length, she wasn’t showing any ankle, and it had a high collar so her neck was hidden. She thought she looked quite staid, but knew it was an era where showing your knees would be the same as walking topless down the high street.
A labourer sauntered towards her in rough, plaster-coated overalls and heavy boots, slumped and exhausted from what must have been a backbreaking day of work. She watched him closely, taking in every detail of his clothing, fascinated, and glanced up at his eyes, which shone a piercing bright blue from his dirty face. He lifted his cloth cap. She nodded.
He passed. Then he stopped and turned.
“Even,” he said.
She was confused for a moment, then realized he’d mumbled a good evening to her.
“Hello,” she answered, looking around to see if anyone else was on the street. They were pretty much alone.
“Cold night for it,” he said.
“I’m warm enough, thank you.”
He looked up and down the street and a chill settled on her heart. He stroked his chin and she heard the crackle of his stubble.
“How much a turn?” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry?”
“How much?”
“You what?” She was looking over his shoulder now at the side street that Danny had gone down, desperately hoping he would appear.
“I’ve got a florin for it,” he said. “Where’s your nest?” He took her arm and started to shove her off the street. “Come on, darling, let’s not hang around.”
“Get off me!” she wailed, but her voice caught in her throat and it came out as a strangled cry that no one heard. She hit out at him, swiping him on the nose.<
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He pulled away, shocked, glaring.
“Do one,” she spat, with sudden venom. “Now!”
The menace in his face turned to confusion. This wasn’t what he was used to. There was something very different about this girl. He backed away and his confusion turned to anger as he scampered off, spitting out a last retort. “You little bitch.”
She caught her breath, realizing how nasty it had almost been and was still gasping when Danny emerged from the side street and crossed the road to join her.
“I’m gonna kill that Mrs Hudson,” she said. “She’s given me a 1912 tart’s outfit. I’ve had all sorts asking me how much.”
Danny didn’t seem surprised. “Well, we are on the edge of the old red light district,” he said. “In fact, it was a big area for prostitution until recently.”
“Oh, thanks. You’re a real gent.” She noticed movement over his shoulder. “Is that him?”
A gentleman had emerged from the front door of number 12 and was walking down the garden path, wearing a top hat and black overcoat. She could see a shock of blonde beard. He opened the gate and crossed to their side of the street and strolled north, heading towards the city.
“That’s Parker,” said Danny. “Come on. Let’s follow.”
Rachel dragged him back. “Why?”
“Because I think he’s our murder suspect.”
— 26 —
ALL DAY, JOE REES HAD waited for movement in the alley, his heart jumping every time someone came out. He had barely looked a customer in the eye as they bought their papers, always looking over their shoulders.
One of his regulars had remarked on it. “Are you all right, Joe?”
“What’s that?”
“You don’t seem all here, Joe.”
“Aw,” he said, taking his eyes off the gap between the row of shops on the other side. “Got a touch of the old collywobbles, today. Someone dancing on my grave.”
“You finish early and get yourself home to a nice, warm bed.”
He hadn’t done that, he thought, Not ever. No day off sick, no holiday. Not once in forty years. Selling papers here day in, day out. He was as much a feature on the green as the bull’s head up there above the door of the pub.
The light was falling and the traffic thickening, trams from the city more frequent, dropping off commuters who picked up the evening edition on the way home.
That was when he came.
This time it was Daniel Pearce. There was no mistaking it.
He was dressed in an out-of-fashion suit that looked baggy on him, but not as strange as he’d looked the first time, with no hat and looking like he was wearing farmer’s clothes or a convict’s garb.
He was with a woman. Yes, she’d been with him the first time, and he remembered now how strange it was that they’d appeared from the mouth of the alley that led up to the churchyard, looked at the newspapers and then gone straight back the way they’d come.
He’d forgotten to mention that detail to Inspector Beadle. He would have to remember it next time he reported to him. Joe had always been one for detail – which was why he’d been such a good police informer. He’d have to keep a sharp eye on things now he was back in business.
Daniel Pearce and the girl looked around them and took it all in, and then they turned right.
Joe took the money off his customer and said, “Sorry, I’m closing shop.”
He had thrown his pile of papers inside and locked the cabin before his customers could object. Money lost, and they’d go to W. H. Smiths forevermore, but that might be offset by what Beadle would pay.
The couple were well up the street before he was following, jogging at first till he was ten yards behind.
Don’t let him see you, he thought. He could be dangerous.
The girl was holding onto his arm now. Who was she?
Cursing as he passed the WH Smith’s shop, he glanced at the array of clock faces in the watchmaker’s window and felt a shudder of something not quite right.
They crossed the street and looked like they might be about to walk into Shufflebotham’s, but they carried on.
Daniel threw a coin into Old Corporal Cooper’s hat and you could tell he’d done it to impress the girl because she pulled him in a bit closer.
The foot traffic thinned out as they passed the Prince of Wales and Joe slowed down. He could keep them in sight from further back. There was no chance of losing them, not with the road so straight for a while.
The girl was looking around at everything like she was on holiday in a strange, new place. Maybe she was a stranger here. That was why he’d never seen her before. Daniel looked on ahead. That was an important difference. He would make a note of it. These little details were why he was the best informer in the business.
Down the gentle hill as they left Moseley and headed towards Balsall Heath, Daniel suddenly pulled her to one side and they crossed the road. Joe waited for a tram to rattle past and nipped across behind it, so they wouldn’t look back and see him cross.
A good thirty yards behind them now, he was surprised when they suddenly stopped. Joe carried on walking as slowly as he could but he was almost pin-heading and it would look out of place. He stopped and pulled tobacco from his pocket and rolled a cigarette, keeping one eye on them as he did. They were talking and seemed interested in a house across the street – one of the swanky big town houses in that row.
Joe walked on. If he stood watching them much longer, he would draw attention to himself. Lowering his hat over his face, he quickened his step and edged past them. They were deep in conversation and didn’t notice him at all.
This was the curious thing. Daniel did not recognize Joe. So how could it be him?
He’d only caught a flash of the conversation, Hardly anything at all, but the name Parker had stood out. And the word murder, and just as he’d brushed past them and smelled a curious waft of some exotic, aromatic perfume, the words it’s you that killed her. Then something about the future.
His mind racing, and wishing he had a notepad and pencil to write all of this down, he stopped at the tram stop and looked back just as Daniel crossed the street and disappeared into a side street. Louise Lorne Road.
He’d left the girl on the other side.
What to do?
It was too risky to run back and follow Daniel. What if he smacked right bang into him as came back out? No. The girl was watching a house, and Daniel was going round the back.
Perhaps they were going to burgle a place.
He decided to cut around. He crossed and marched down Trafalgar Road and took the bend that ran parallel to the main road. He cut in at the other end of Louise Lorne Road and slowed, fearing he might run headlong into Daniel.
The suspect. The murderer.
He edged down the back street, coming into a close where the backs of the houses met. He became aware that he was wheezing. Not as young as he used to be. Perhaps he really was too old for this, and that was why Beadle had let him go. The inspector had been embarrassed to see him again, that was clear. Perhaps he had hired him again out of pity. Well, he’d show him. He had proof that Daniel Pearce was planning a murder, and he might just be able to tell him who the victim was, before it had even happened.
Wouldn’t that be a feather in the old cap for Joe Rees, and no mistake?
There was no sight of Daniel Pearce. He must have gone back.
Joe edged around till he could see right up Louise Lorne Road through to the street. The girl was still standing there on the corner. A man was with her. But it wasn’t Daniel Pearce. Some labourer. No wonder, what with her hanging around on street corners like a common giggler.
He looked back over the empty close. Where had he gone?
Then it caught his eye, the one unusual thing across the row of houses: a man standing on an outhouse, at a back window. Was he breaking in?
No. A girl at the window. Talking. A secret meeting. Romeo and Juliet. Wasn’t there a lot of murder in that play
as well? Love and murder. Perhaps Daniel Pearce and this girl were plotting to kill her husband. No. She looked too young from this distance. Nothing but a girl. Her father then.
This was more information than he thought he could ever have gleaned. Inspector Beadle’s jaw would drop onto his desk when old Joe Rees told him all of this.
The girl closed the window and they pressed their palms to the glass. They were definitely secret lovers. Skulking round the old back entrance too. Daniel Pearce jumped down to the garden. Joe skulked behind a lamppost and peeped out.
He came over the fence with the bounce of a young man and scooted off to join the girl out front.
Joe counted the back gates along the row of houses and followed.
They were talking on the street corner. He would have to decide which way to turn when he reached the end of the side street. Either way, he would have his back to them and wouldn’t be able to watch them.
But just as he came to the mouth of the street, they turned and walked off towards the city. They had their eyes on a gent in a top hat who had just crossed the street to their side. Was it this Parker fellow they were planning to murder? Had he just come from the house, not realizing the tryst that had occurred at the rear of his own house. Literally behind his back?
The dirty, low scoundrels.
The gent stopped at the tram stop and the murderous couple followed and joined him there.
A tram came trundling from Moseley village.
He couldn’t follow them. It was too close now. He let the tram scoop them up and take them away.
Walking along the row of villas, he counted the houses till he came to number 12. He pushed the gate open and walked up the long front garden to the door and pressed the bell.
A girl came to the door. No servant. He filed that information away, thinking it might be useful later.
Sweeping off his cloth cap, he put on his harmless old man voice. “Oh, good evening to you, young lady. I was after calling on Mr Parker. Only I can’t be at all sure I have the right house. It is Mr Parker’s residence, isn’t it?”