The Lily-White Boys

by Anthea Fraser

  There was a tap on the door and Dawson poked his head round. ‘Spare us a couple of minutes, Guv?’

  ‘Of course, Bob. Come in and pull up a chair.’

  Dawson did so, subsiding on to it with a groan of relief and stretching out his legs. ‘Been pounding round the town on the track of the White gang. Now the season’s over it’s not so easy to run them to earth, specially since they’ve been avoiding the Duckworth.’

  ‘Probably dodging all the speculation.’

  ‘Yep – understandable. Anyway, I caught up with two of them at the timber yard where they work. Richards and Seymour. Couple of right layabouts.’

  ‘Were they any help?’

  ‘None whatever. Same story we hear everywhere – the twins kept themselves to themselves. If they were indulging in a spot of blackmail, they seem to have kept their mouths shut about it.’

  ‘Were any members of the gang closer to the Whites than the rest of them?’

  ‘Possibly Jango Simms. He was what Seymour called their “leg man”, whatever that means.’

  ‘Let’s hope it means confidant. We’ve had a bit of luck today; the twins have an uncle and aunt alive and well and living in Oxbury. In fact, they lived there themselves until five years ago.’

  ‘Get away! Not what they told their landlord, was it?

  ‘No, poor old bugger. It hit him pretty hard.’

  ‘What of the relatives?’

  ‘They took the twins in when they were orphaned at the age of seven and kept them, under increasing difficulty, for eight years.’

  ‘Reckon they deserve a medal!’ Dawson observed, with a sour grin. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘An almighty row about noise, unacceptable friends and pot-smoking.’

  ‘And they got out?’

  ‘Yep. Never to be heard of again. Or so the aunt says.’

  ‘You don’t believe her?’

  ‘I don’t know. She seems frightened of her husband; he didn’t want her to contact us. I keep wondering why. Like a job for tomorrow?’

  ‘Surprise me!’

  ‘It’ll give you a break from the football crowd, at any rate. Leave Cummings to track down – what were their names? – Arkwright and Leyton, and you can attend to Simms yourself after you’ve seen Hargreaves. I haven’t got his work address, but he should be home on a Saturday. Two, Riverside Close. But don’t rile him, Bob; we don’t want to get his wife into trouble.’

  ‘You know me, Guv,’ Dawson said laconically. ‘The soul of discretion.’

  Miss Tulip closed the gate of the little Victorian house carefully behind her, counted, as she always did, the number of footsteps it took to reach the front door – unfailingly nine – and inserted her key. But this evening the familiar ritual failed to soothe her. The police had been back at the store asking questions, and she was deeply disturbed.

  Closing and locking the front door behind her, she went at once to the parlour cupboard, took out her father’s sherry decanter and poured herself a generous measure. But instead of sitting down to enjoy it, she remained standing, an immobile figure in black jacket and skirt, gazing unseeingly through the net curtains to the matching terrace across the road.

  Why were the police still nosing around? She didn’t for a moment think it was anything to do with Miss Monica. Not directly, that is. After all, anyone could see it wasn’t her fault that a couple of bodies had been left at her door. Miss Tulip shuddered delicately and took another gulp of sherry.

  Then there was the phone call Patsy had spoken about; an uncouth sort of fellow, wanting to speak to Miss Monica. That, again, had filled her with fear. Suppose whoever-he-was had discovered her little secret and wanted to report her? Would Miss Monica give her notice? Without Randall Tovey’s to go to every day, her life would have no meaning, no meaning at all. Beside that possibility, even her – her secret was unimportant.

  Setting down the sherry glass with a decisive little click, Miss Tulip went back into the lobby and dialled a number. When the familiar voice answered, she identified herself and asked crisply, ‘Has anyone been making inquiries about me?’

  ‘Not a soul, me love.’ She heard the surprise in his voice, and it was some comfort.

  ‘I’m uneasy, Mr Spratt. I shan’t be contacting you for a week or two, and – this is most important – you must make no attempt whatever to contact me.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ He sounded supremely unconcerned, quite incurious as to her anxiety.

  ‘Very well. I’ll speak to you in due course.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she replaced the phone on its cradle. Then, some minutes behind her normal schedule, she went upstairs, slightly unsteady after the unaccustomed sherry. In the neat, impersonal bedroom she changed out of her working clothes and hung them carefully in the wardrobe till the next morning. She now had roughly fourteen hours before she could return to her real home, the foyer of Randall Tovey. She would fill them, as she usually did, with music, tapestry and sleep. As far as the police were concerned, she’d taken such precautions as she could. Now she must sit back and trust there’d be no further developments.

  With a small sigh, she went downstairs to prepare her frugal supper.

  Monica heard the car as she finished dressing for the theatre and went to the window expecting to see George. Instead, it was Justin who was coming up the path. The bell rang as she gathered up handbag and stole, and she reached the bottom of the stairs as Mrs Bedale admitted him. He stopped short on seeing her.

  ‘You’re going out?’

  ‘In a minute or two, yes.’ She held up her face for his usual peck. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’ He seldom called at the house without Eloise.

  ‘I wanted to satisfy myself that you’re all right.’

  ‘Oh, Justin,’ she said softly. ‘That’s very sweet of you.’ It occurred to her that he’d driven straight here on his return from his business trip. ‘I’m fine,’ she added.

  ‘No further developments?’

  ‘Look, come in for a drink. Mother will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject, Monica. Has something else happened?’

  ‘A couple of phone calls, that’s all.’

  His voice sharpened. ‘What kind of phone calls?’

  ‘A man wanted to speak to me, but I wasn’t available either time.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘The police know about it. It’s all right.’

  ‘It’s very definitely not all right,’ he said vehemently. ‘I’d be much happier if you packed an overnight case and came back with me now. And your mother too, if she’d like to.’

  ‘Really, it’s not necessary. In any case, he hasn’t phoned today, so whatever it was couldn’t have been important.’

  He was about to argue further when the doorbell sounded again. He turned and opened the door to see George on the step.

  ‘Am I interrupting something?’ George inquired, looking from one of them to the other.

  ‘Justin’s just heard about the phone calls.’

  ‘There haven’t been any more?’

  ‘No, nothing. As I say, that’s probably the end of it.’ Justin said heavily, ‘I mustn’t detain you. Are you going somewhere interesting?’

  ‘To the Grand, to see the new Ayckbourn play. I thought we could both do with a laugh.’

  ‘Is that George, dear?’ called a voice from the drawing-room.

  Justin said quickly, ‘I really mustn’t stop – I’ve not been home yet.’

  George said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll cover for you’ and he opened the drawing-room door. ‘Good evening, Maude. How are you today?’ As he went into the room he pulled the door to behind him, allowing Justin to make his escape undetected.

  In the hall, Monica said steadily, ‘George will take care of me.’

  ‘I’m sure he will. Why the devil don’t you marry him, and tell his mother to go to hell? Then perhaps I could stop worrying about you.’

  The outburst was so uncharacteristic that
Monica stared at him, and after a moment he managed a sheepish smile.

  ‘Sorry, it’s been a long day.’

  ‘I know, and it was sweet of you to make this detour on the way home.’

  He wished she wouldn’t keep calling him ‘sweet’, but he daren’t cause any more ripples.

  ‘Just as long as you’re all right.’ He put up his hand and briefly touched her cheek. Then he turned and let himself out of the house, closing the door silently behind him. It was several seconds before Monica walked slowly to the drawing-room door.

  ‘You’re later than I expected,’ Eloise remarked, as her husband bent to kiss her.

  ‘I looked in at North Park to check that all was well.’

  Eloise lifted an eyebrow. ‘And was it?’

  ‘Yes; Monica’s going to the theatre with George. She should be safe enough with him.’

  ‘Safe? Good heavens, Justin, you don’t seriously think she’s in danger?’

  Her light, almost mocking tone irritated him. He was tired, he reminded himself, crossing to the drinks cabinet. ‘Yes, as it happens, I do. She’s had a couple of anonymous phone calls, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know, but it’s an acknowledged fact that the people who make them are harmless. They get rid of their aggression or whatever that way.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware you were a psychologist, Eloise.’

  ‘My, my! We are grumpy this evening!’

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry.’ Contritely he went back and kissed her again. ‘I’ve had an exhausting three days and frankly I could do without this worry now.’

  ‘Then let George handle it. You said he could cope. Look, I know it was ghastly for Monica to have that beastly van there and actually to see the man, but it’s in the hands of the police now, and they seem to be watching over her.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He drew a deep breath. He’d forgotten about the bodyguard.

  ‘I wish she’d marry George,’ Eloise continued, accepting the refilled glass her husband handed her. ‘Goodness knows, they’re ideally suited.’

  Justin, aware she was echoing his own sentiments of half an hour before, nevertheless looked at her in surprise. ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Of course; Monica needs someone to boss about, and George needs to be bossed. After a lifetime with Ethel, he’d be lost with no one to tell him what to do.’

  ‘Don’t make the mistake of underestimating George,’ Justin warned her. ‘He’s very well thought of in the business world.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s most worthy,’ Eloise said carelessly. ‘He just bores me rigid.’

  ‘Who does, dearest Mama?’ Theo had come into the room, unnoticed by his parents.

  ‘George Latimer.’

  ‘Oh, agreed. A real drag.’

  ‘Theo, you’re speaking of one of our friends,’ Justin said sharply, wishing his son would act rather less like a Sloane Ranger.

  ‘Mother started it!’ Theo retorted, unrepentant. He wandered over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Campari. ‘By the way, has your invitation to the Private View arrived?’

  ‘Of course, ages ago.’ Eloise sipped her drink.

  ‘It’s on Tuesday, isn’t it? I haven’t had one, but Claudia issued a general invitation when she was here. I’m sure it’ll be all right if I turn up.’

  ‘Even more all right if you buy a painting.’

  ‘At those prices? You must be joking.’

  ‘So why go?’ asked his father. ‘For the free drinks?’

  Theo threw him a reproachful look. ‘You meet interesting people at those do’s, businesswise as well as socially. Come on, Dad, that’s why you go yourself! Mother’s the only arty member of the family.’

  Eloise smiled complacently. She and the Marlows were members of the local Arts Appreciation Society, which involved attending monthly lectures, visiting museums, churches and Stately Homes, and going on three or four trips abroad each year. The family teased her about it, regarding it as one of her ‘trivial pursuits’ along with bridge and her passion for clothes, but she ignored them, merely pointing out that they all benefited from her eye for unusual trinkets and the objets d’art which decorated their home.

  ‘Of course you should go, darling,’ she told her son. ‘I’m sure it was an oversight, not inviting you. Anyway, Claudia was saying there haven’t been many replies; they’ll be grateful to you for swelling the numbers.’

  Justin, who had never in his life been anywhere uninvited, could only hope she was right.

  By the next morning the weather had clouded over, and the river Kittle which flowed through Oxbury was correspondingly grey. Little gusts of wind whipped its water into ripples and ruffled the feathers of the waterfowl that swam there. Bob Dawson, having left his car at the top of the lane, hoped the rain would hold off until he got back to it.

  Wild goose chase, this, in his opinion, and despite what the Governor had said, he’d have been better pursuing his inquiries at the club. They knew him there, and young Steve was out of his depth. Still, his not to reason why, and at least he had Simms to see this afternoon. If he could find him, that is. He turned into Riverside Close and went up the path of No. 2. An unshaven man in shirt-sleeves opened the door. ‘Yes?’ he said uninvitingly.

  ‘Detective-Sergeant Dawson, sir, Shillingham CID. Could I have a word?’

  Alarm flooded the ruddy face and its colour receded. ‘Police? Must have the wrong address.’

  ‘Mr Hargreaves?’ He nodded mutely. ‘I’ve a few questions concerning your nephews, sir, Gary and Robert White.’

  The man put out a hand to support himself against the door-frame. Dawson, interested, wondered if he were going to pass out.

  ‘How – ?’ Hargreaves swallowed and tried again. ‘How did you know about that?’

  ‘If I could just come inside for a minute, sir?’

  Grudgingly the man stood aside. He exuded an earthy smell of stale sweat and tobacco.

  ‘Who is it, Roddie?’ A frail-looking woman appeared at the back of the hall, a bundle of washing in her arms. Her eyes widened at the sight of Dawson.

  ‘It’s the police, for Gawd’s sake.’ He turned to her, suddenly suspicious. ‘Kathleen, you never – ?’

  ‘I saw two men yesterday,’ she faltered. ‘There was no harm in it, Roddie, and I felt we should. I – didn’t think anyone else would come.’

  ‘You stupid cow! What did you want to do that for? I told you –’

  Dawson, mindful of his mission to protect Mrs Hargreaves, cleared his throat. ‘Your wife behaved quite correctly, sir. I’m just following up –’

  Hargreaves flung his way into the front room. ‘You’d better come in here and get it over with. I’ll deal with her later.’

  But Mrs Hargreaves had more spunk than Dawson had given her credit for. ‘I’d like to come in too, if that’s all right,’ she said, and although her voice shook, there was no mistaking her determination.

  ‘Quite all right by me, ma’am.’ All to the good, in fact. She was more likely to let something slip than was the surly devil she was married to. Hargreaves himself glowered at her but made no comment, and Dawson realized, to his considerable relief, that despite the Governor’s unease she was not afraid of her husband. It seemed she suffered nothing worse than occasional hard words, and knew how to deal with him.

  ‘Now, Mr Hargreaves, could you tell me how you spent last Monday evening?’

  The man darted a glance at him. There was a long pause, then he said, ‘I went to the pub, didn’t I?’

  ‘Which pub, sir?’

  Another silence. Mrs Hargreaves was now looking bewildered. ‘Why don’t you tell him, Roddie?’ Then, as her husband still didn’t speak, she added, ‘It’s the Stag, sir, at the top of the lane. I did tell the other gentlemen.’

  Dawson was about to ask Hargreaves to confirm this seemingly innocent fact, when the man burst out suddenly, ‘You know, don’t you? You bloody know!’

  Dawson tried to look suitably knowledg
eable without having the slightest idea what he was talking about. ‘Did you in fact go to the Stag public house, sir?’ he began tentatively.

  ‘Of course I did, at first. But it was the darts match, wasn’t it?’

  Mrs Hargreaves put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’d forgotten that.’

  The significance was lost on Dawson, but fortunately Hargreaves, having decided his cover was blown, was now continuing. ‘We were playing away, see. A coach came for us at half-seven and ran us over to the Magpie at Chedbury.’

  Dawson and Mrs Hargreaves waited expectantly, and he lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘And they were there, weren’t they?’

  Dawson stared at him blankly, and it was the woman who whispered, ‘The twins? You saw the twins on Monday?’

  ‘Now do you see why I didn’t want us involved? But oh no, you had to have your way and get in touch with the police.’

  ‘But – what were they doing out there?’

  ‘I didn’t ask them.’

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘Oh, they saw me all right. Came over, bold as brass and watched me playing darts. Fair put me off my aim, I can tell you.’ Hargreaves stared down at the threadbare carpet, reliving the encounter.

  ‘What time did they arrive?’ Dawson interrupted, trying to assess this unexpected development.

  ‘Nine-thirty, ten.’

  ‘Alone, or with anyone?’

  ‘Just the two of them, as far as I could see.’

  ‘How – how did they seem?’ asked their aunt, with somewhat belated concern.

  ‘Full of the joys. I was expecting them to make trouble, but far from it. Even bought me a drink. They never mentioned us throwing them out, just said they were settled in Shillingham with a nice old geezer and his wife.’ Hargreaves frowned, remembering. ‘But there was something – I dunno – odd about them. Like kids, hugging a secret no one else knows. It made me nervous. I was waiting for something to happen, like they used to play me up in the old days. But they were as pally as you please, asking after you and the kids and everything.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing, really. They watched the darts and played the slot machines, and then the coach came to collect us so they said goodbye.’