by Roberta Kray
‘Is Mr Hamilton there?’
‘No, he’s not in the office much. Out and about, isn’t he?’
‘So how can I get in touch?’
‘Try later, I suppose. Or you could leave your number and I’ll pass it on.’
Judith weighed up the two options and came down in favour of the second. She could be trying all day and still not get hold of him. She gave her name and the number of Gillespie & Tate, crossing her fingers that neither of those two gentlemen would be in the vicinity if and when she got a call back. The receiving of private calls was a lesser crime – no cost to the firm except in time – but was still frowned upon.
She put down the phone, gathered up her remaining change and left the station. It was disappointing that the photographer hadn’t been there, but at least she’d set the wheels in motion. Although early for work, she didn’t loiter. She wanted to make sure she was behind her desk in case Mr Hamilton tried to ring her.
Three hours later, Judith was still waiting. Every time the phone rang, she jumped, wondering if this time it would be Bob Hamilton. Every time, she was disappointed. Her nerves were frayed, her concentration shot. It all meant so much, too much. One decent photograph, one clear image, and she would know for sure. The day dragged on. She typed and filed and made cups of tea for the clients. On two occasions Mr Tate took pleasure in pointing out mistakes she had made and whole contracts had to be retyped. Lunch came and went. She stayed at her post. It was after four o’clock before she finally got the call she’d been longing for.
She thanked Bob Hamilton for ringing and quickly explained the situation. The only thing she didn’t mention was that she thought the tall, blond man might be her husband. Instead she referred to him as a cousin she’d lost touch with during the war. She didn’t want to come across as some crazy lady he might be tempted to hang up on, but in the event it didn’t make any difference.
‘Sorry, that’s the only shot I took with the crowd in it. The others are all close-ups of the car.’
The news came as a blow and Judith felt her hopes deflate. ‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘That’s a shame.’
‘Well, I hope you find him.’
‘Thank you.’
Bob Hamilton hesitated and then said, ‘I don’t know if this is of any help – it probably isn’t – but I do know one of the fellers, the one to your cousin’s left, wearing a raincoat and hat. His name’s Tombs – T-O-M-B-S, Alfred Tombs.’
Judith scribbled down the name. She tried to visualise the photo in her head but couldn’t recall the man with the hat. She’d been too preoccupied with Dan. ‘Does it look like they might be together?’
Hamilton gave a snort. ‘Let me ask you a question. Is your cousin the law-abiding sort?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then no. Not a chance.’
‘So this Tombs, he’s what, some kind of criminal?’
‘He’s that all right. Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve got the guv’nor yelling in my ear.’
‘All right, and thanks for …’ But the line had already gone dead.
Judith put down the phone and pondered on what she’d learned. She wished she had the picture with her so she could see how closely the two men were standing together, but it was probably irrelevant. More likely they had just stopped independently of each other to gawp at a spectacle. But what if … What if what? She could think of no reason at all why Dan would be in the company of a criminal. But then she could think of no reason why he would be in London either.
Mr Gillespie came out of his office and stood beside her desk. ‘Is everything all right, Judith?’
‘I’m sorry about the mistakes in Mr Tate’s documents,’ she said quickly, fearing a reprimand. ‘I do apologise. It won’t happen again, I promise.’
‘We all make mistakes. Try not to worry about it. But you’re looking tired, my dear. Perhaps you should take some time off. Don’t you usually go on holiday in August?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, usually.’ Under normal circumstances she would book her holiday for the same dates as Charlotte and they would go up to the Lakes or the Dales and spend the week walking. Those days were gone, however. From now on, Charlotte would be holidaying with George.
‘Why don’t you take next week off? Have a rest. Mr Tate won’t be here, so …’ He stopped and frowned. ‘But maybe it’s too short notice for you.’
Judith was about to agree that it was, but then had a change of heart. ‘Would you be able to manage?’
‘Oh yes, Mrs Gillespie can come in and help.’
This wasn’t exactly reassuring news – Mr Gillespie’s wife had a random method of filing which meant that documents could end up anywhere and usually did – but she decided it was a price worth paying. ‘All right, then. Thank you. I’ll do that.’
As her boss returned to his office, she began tidying her desk. A plan had occurred to her, an idea that filled her with excitement and trepidation. Why not go to London? If Dan was still alive, there was only one way to find him, and it wasn’t by sitting here in Westport.
4
‘You’re going to London?’ Annie said, her eyes widening.
‘Shh, no need to tell the whole world.’ Judith raised a finger to her lips and glanced around. They were in the foyer of the town hall, waiting for Charlotte to arrive. George was already in attendance, smartly suited with a carnation in his lapel, standing to one side with a couple she presumed were his brother and his wife. ‘Yes, Monday morning. I’ve bought my ticket. I’m all ready to go.’
‘Where are you going to stay?’
Judith gave a light shrug of her shoulders. ‘I’ll find somewhere. There must be lots of places. A bed and breakfast probably, a cheap one.’
‘But where are you even going to start? Looking for him, I mean. London’s not like Westport; you’re not going to bump into him on some street corner.’
‘I know that. I’m going to try Kellston first.’
‘And where’s that when it’s at home?’
‘The East End. It’s where he grew up.’
‘That’s a rough part,’ Annie said. ‘I’ve heard about it. You’d better be careful. You could get robbed or attacked or—’
‘Of course I’m going to be careful, for heaven’s sake. What else would I be?’
Annie raised her eyebrows. ‘All right, keep your hair on. I’m only saying.’
‘You were the one who claimed you’d do the same in my position.’
‘I didn’t say I’d waltz off to London on my own, did I?’
‘What else am I supposed to do? I’m not going to find him by staying here. I’ve got to know if it’s him, Annie.’
She must have raised her voice, because George looked over and frowned. Judith nodded and smiled and made a small, unnecessary adjustment to the angle of her hat. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured to Annie. ‘I know you’re concerned, but I’ll be fine. You won’t tell Charlotte, will you? Promise me.’
‘She won’t be happy.’
‘All the more reason to keep quiet about it. I will talk to her, just not yet. She’ll only worry.’
‘I’m worried.’
Judith patted her arm. ‘Yes, but it’s not your wedding day, so you’ll have to grin and bear it.’
As if on cue, Charlotte walked in. She had swept up her long fair hair and was wearing a pretty pink suit and matching low-heeled shoes. They fussed around her, kissed her cheek and told her how lovely she looked. There was a brief whirl of activity as the guests gathered together, and five minutes later they were all inside the wedding room listening to the registrar.
Judith gazed at Charlotte, hoping she was happy. She looked happy. Maybe George had more about him than Judith imagined. Maybe he had hidden depths. Well hidden, it would appear, but perhaps she shouldn’t be too quick to judge. She should make more of an effort to get to know him better. After all, Charlotte was intelligent and kind and unlikely to attach herself to someone who was entirely without merit.
Judith�
��s gaze drifted, along with her thoughts. The last time she’d been here, in this very room, she’d been marrying Dan. Memories flooded back. What had she felt on that day? Love and lust, trust and boundless hope. It had been a new beginning, the start of a new life. And yes, it had all been tinged by the shadow of war, but she’d truly believed he would come back to her. Till death do us part. But what if it wasn’t death that had parted them? Doubt fluttered at the edges of her thoughts.
She had studied the picture in the paper again, examining the villain called Tombs and trying to work out if the two men were actually together. It was impossible to tell. She gave a small shake of her head, trying to free her mind of the worries that were gathering there. On Monday she would be on a train, heading for London. It was the right thing to do. She was sure of it. She’d go mad otherwise. If she did nothing, the possibility that he was still alive would always be there, dogging her, haunting her, filling every waking moment.
The vows were exchanged, the partnership sealed, and the groom kissed the bride. There was a ripple of applause from the guests. They stood and gathered round the couple, offering their congratulations and wishing them well. There was more kissing, along with handshakes and affectionate slaps on the back. Judith embraced Charlotte. ‘Be happy,’ she said.
The hotel was only twenty yards away, and so they walked along the road in twos and threes. A lively wind was blowing off the Irish Sea, and the women held on to their hats. Annie linked her arm through Judith’s and leaned in to say softly, ‘I never thought I’d be envious of anyone marrying George Rigby.’
Judith grinned at her. ‘And I never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. I miss having someone around, someone to talk to. I hate coming home to an empty flat every night.’
Judith nodded. She understood. Although she had not lived with Dan for any prolonged period of time, she always felt his absence. The flat had a curious stillness about it, an emptiness that couldn’t be filled. She squeezed Annie’s arm. ‘Maybe we can fix you up with one of George’s pals.’
‘None of that lot would be interested in me.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m not their type, love. Too common, aren’t I? They wouldn’t marry a shop girl.’
It was true, Judith thought, that Westport was rife with snobbery, with a them-and-us attitude dividing the middle and lower classes. Annie was never short of dates – blokes like George often took her dancing, for meals or for drinks at the pub – but it never developed into anything serious. The men came and went. She was good company, always up for a laugh, a sing-song and probably a lot more, but they didn’t see her as marriage material. ‘You’re too good for them,’ she said. ‘That’s the problem.’
‘That must be it. Or maybe I’m too bad.’
Judith laughed. ‘You’ll find someone. I know you will.’
The Astor was an old-fashioned sort of place, past its best but still respectable. Once it had been the hotel to stay in, the resort’s crowning glory, but those days had long gone. Now dusty chandeliers hung from the high ceiling of the dining room, the wallpaper was fading, and the red plush chairs showed signs of wear, the gilt peeling from their backs, the cushioned seats a little frayed around the edges.
The top table consisted of Charlotte, George and their respective parents. The rest of the room had been divided into tables of four, each with a centrepiece of three white lilies. Judith and Annie had been seated with two men they’d never met before: Charles Rigby, a cousin of George’s, and Martin Davenport, one of George’s work colleagues. Annie seemed pleased enough with the arrangement – Martin was a debonair greying gentleman in his early fifties, suave and confident – and she didn’t waste any time in engaging him in conversation. Charles, however, was a different kettle of fish.
Judith, who had already guessed that Charlotte had picked him as a prospective suitor, felt her heart sink. She wasn’t in the market for a new husband, and even if she had been, Charles would not have made the shortlist. He had a somewhat superior air – a family trait, perhaps – and kept glancing at his watch as though he had somewhere more important to be. It was only when he mentioned that he worked as a barrister in London that her ears pricked up.
‘Really? How interesting. Whereabouts?’
‘Lincoln’s Inn, of course.’
‘Ah,’ she said, feeling that she had made a faux pas even by asking. ‘Yes, Lincoln’s Inn.’
‘Do you know London?’
‘Not really, although I do have a friend who lives in Kellston.’
At the mention of the district, Charles’s face twisted a little, like he’d just popped a slice of lemon in his mouth. ‘The East End.’
‘Are you familiar with it? What’s it like?’
‘Flat,’ he said shortly.
‘Flat?’
Martin leaned across the table. ‘What he means, my dear, is that it was badly bombed during the war. Mr Hitler made an almighty mess of the place.’
‘It’s a shame he didn’t finish the job,’ Charles said. ‘It’s a sewer, a breeding ground for criminals. Half the rabble of London come from there.’
‘You should be grateful,’ Martin said drily. ‘Aren’t that rabble bread and butter for you lot? If it wasn’t for their misdemeanours, you wouldn’t get all those delightful court fees.’
Charles gave a thin smile.
‘Bit rough, then, is it?’ Annie enquired. ‘Not the sort of place you’d want to go for your holidays?’
Judith scowled at her. She would have kicked her under the table if she wasn’t afraid of catching Martin’s leg by mistake.
‘Not the sort of place you’d want to go at any time,’ Charles said.
The food arrived – cutlets, potatoes and green beans – and the subject was dropped. A few brief speeches and a toast to the bride and groom followed the meal, and then the hotel band struck up. Martin and Annie took to the dance floor, but Charles didn’t ask Judith if she’d care to join them. She was both grateful and insulted. His manners, it seemed, left a lot to be desired.
With Annie out of the way, she took the opportunity to interrogate him further. ‘Is the East End really that bad?’
Charles took a sip of his champagne and smacked his lips. ‘Worse,’ he pronounced, almost gleefully.
‘Worse?’
‘It’s the filthy underbelly of London, swarming with thieves and murderers and every other kind of lowlife. All the detritus of the city gathered in one place. Yes, it really is that bad.’
None of this filled Judith with confidence. ‘Is it to do with the poverty, do you think? I’ve heard it’s quite a poor area.’
‘Poverty is no excuse for breaking the law. Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. How much clearer can the rules be? These people have no morals whatsoever.’
Judith felt her hackles rise at his sanctimonious response. Dan had been one of ‘these people’, raised in the East End, but he’d been decent and honest. It was hardly fair to tar everyone with the same brush. ‘That can’t be true,’ she said. ‘There are good people everywhere.’
Charles snorted. ‘You think I’m exaggerating? Believe me, I’m not. Criminals breed criminals. It’s a fact. It’s in their blood; they just can’t help themselves.’
Judith might have argued the point – surely circumstances and environment were factors too? – but she wanted to pick his brains about something else before Annie got back. ‘I suppose you must meet quite a lot of criminals in your line of work.’
‘It’s hard to avoid them.’
‘Have you ever come across a man called Alfred Tombs?’
‘Tombs? Of course! There’s not a prosecutor in London who hasn’t come across him at one time or another.’
‘Is he from the East End?’
‘Why on earth do you want to know about a man like that?’
‘Oh,’ she said, trying to sound casual, ‘I read something about him in the paper. I
’m just curious.’
‘Yes, he’s from the East End, and a prime example of what I’ve been talking about. Robbery, extortion, gambling – he’s up to his neck in it. Fashions himself as the boss of the underworld, although it’s doubtful anyone is actually in charge of that rabble. They’re a law unto themselves.’
‘So why don’t the police arrest him?’
‘They have, on numerous occasions, but making the charges stick is more of a problem. He’s slippery as an eel, that one. Which isn’t to say he’s never been convicted. No, he’s done his fair share of time, but he’s learning from his mistakes. Older and wiser, isn’t that what they say? These days he keeps his head down and pretends to be a respectable businessman.’
While Judith thought about all this, she kept one eye on Charles and the other on the dance floor. She didn’t see how Dan could possibly have a connection to Alfred Tombs, but it was the only lead she had at the moment, so she might as well make the most of it. ‘What kind of businessman?’
‘Pubs, clubs, imports and exports – you name a pie and he’s got his finger in it.’
‘In the East End?’
‘Heavens, no, not just the East End. Mayfair, Soho, anywhere there’s money to be made. Men like Tombs spread their nets wide.’
Judith nodded. She had a plan forming in her head. If the worst came to the worst and she could find no trace of Dan in Kellston, she could always try and track down Tombs. The prospect didn’t fill her with joy, but at least it was an option. ‘So he can’t be a difficult man to find – for the police, I mean.’
‘Finding him is one thing, convicting him quite another. He’s got an alibi for every crime. Still, one day he’ll make a mistake and then we’ll have him.’
Judith could see the anticipation shining in his eyes. Although usually on the side of law and order – how else could society operate? – she was uncomfortable at being on any side that had Charles Rigby on it. ‘I’m sure you will.’
He frowned, perhaps hearing something less than admiring in her tone, and looked at his watch again.
‘Do you need to be somewhere?’ she asked, irked by his rudeness.