A sound something between a laugh and a cry came from Alfred Packer. ‘Then good for her, because I don’t sleep, not any more.’
Sykes did something unprecedented for him. He reached out, placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘I’ll be in the Tavern. Spare me half an hour if you can.’
Their eyes met. He would come, Sykes knew it. Meanwhile, there would be time for him to have a pint and a scotch egg.
Alfred Packer walked him to the door. ‘I’m not going in the Tavern. I’d be ashamed to be seen in there at this time of day, like a man with no work to go to. I’ll see you by the cemetery gates.’
‘There he lies.’ Sykes stood beside the forlorn Alfred Packer, tram driver, looking down at a simple gravestone engraved with Douglas Dougan’s name and the dates of his birth and death. Alfred let out a sigh. ‘I’m glad they didn’t put that he was run down by a tram, by my tram, or what was my tram.’
Sykes took off his hat. ‘Terribly sad, for him and for you.’
Someone had planted flowers. Sykes recognised only geraniums and poppies but there were little blue flowers and white ones too. He wondered if this represented the red, white and blue of the union flag. ‘Who planted the flowers, Mr Packer?’
‘My wife and daughters. They thought it might make me feel better, but it doesn’t. I can’t get it out of my mind. The company was good. They put me on a clerical job because I couldn’t drive the tram no more.’
‘How did the accident happen?’
‘That’s what I was asked at the inquest. I said he must have just stepped out with no warning. My superintendent spoke up for me, having never had an accident. My conductor spoke up for me, but he didn’t see it. One of the passengers spoke up, that the line was clear and then it wasn’t.’
‘And afterwards, you’ve had time to think about it, what do you say now?’
‘I couldn’t say. I couldn’t speak afterwards. They took me to hospital and kept me in overnight. Shock. They said shock. Everything went from my mind. I was a blank, and that’s what was accepted, that he stepped out. But now I don’t know. Should I have seen him? I see him in my dream.’
Sykes took out cigarettes. They made their way to a bench and sat down, the dog sitting beside his master. Alfred put a hand on the dog’s head. ‘And Dougie Doig, Mr Dougan, he had dogs himself. Three performing dogs he had. I don’t know what happened to them, the poor creatures. We’d seen his show. They were such clever animals, jumping through hoops, performing somersaults, playing dead.’
Sykes was glad to be able to offer a crumb of comfort. ‘The dogs have gone to a good home. One of his theatrical friends saw to that.’
‘I’m glad. But they won’t get over it. They’ll go on pining. Did you hear that at the instant of his death, all three dogs howled so loud they could be heard in the auditorium?’
‘No, I hadn’t heard that.’
‘I wish I could see them, but of course you can’t explain to dumb animals. They only go by your tone of voice. This one, he likes to hear me say, “Oh, you poor old feller, what a hard life”. He loves me to say that.’
The dog thumped its tail in appreciation of the sentiments.
‘Mr Packer…’
‘Alf, call me Alf.’
‘Alf, you said you dream about that incident. What is it that you dream?’
He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I dream that I see someone coming up close to him, and in the dream I’m sure they are going to pull him back. I can’t brake in time, you see. But they don’t pull him back, they push him. Push him in front of the tramcar.’
‘Have you told anyone about this dream?’
‘I went back to the police. But it’s all done and dusted and the coroner’s report filed away. It’s only a dream, that’s what they said.’
‘Do you see this person, what they look like?’
‘Just a figure, a figure, dressed in black. I don’t see a face.’
‘Did you tell anyone else?’
‘The works doctor. He said I needed a rest, that being the anniversary it’d all come flooding back. He give me a week off. That’s why you find me at home.’
‘And is it to do with the anniversary that you feel so bad?’
‘No. It’s the sound of the trams. It’s everything. It’s what’s in my head.’
‘And no witnesses came forward?’
‘Not a single one. There was a call for them in the paper. It was a shocking night, see, cloud, rain. You wouldn’t credit it in June, would you? People heard, they stopped. Afterwards some came round to see – gawpers. Then they all melted away. No one came forward as a witness.’ He scratched his neck under the muffler. ‘We was at the funeral, me and the wife and the superintendent from the depot, and my conductor – as was. There were theatricals, a lot of theatricals paying their respects. I was dreading meeting his family and being held to account, but no family came. Did he have anyone, do you know?’
‘I don’t believe he did.’
Sykes had gambled his answer would make Alf feel better. Wrong.
‘Poor man. That’s even worse. No one to mourn him.’
Sykes rarely told lies. He preferred silence. He was there to listen, not to talk. But in a case shadowed by phases of moon, dreams, a cigar and, if Mrs Sugden was to be believed, performers who jumped in the river if someone didn’t laugh at a joke, perhaps a kind lie to a distressed man would not go amiss.
‘There’s something else, Alf. This wasn’t public knowledge, you understand, but Mr Dougan did not have long to live. He had been diagnosed with a fatal illness. So if he did wander onto the tracks, then perhaps it was because of his distracted state of mind and a mercy that he died so quickly.’
‘Is that true? You’re not just saying it?’
Sykes felt slightly annoyed. He was not a practised liar but thought he could do it as well as the next man. ‘If it is any consolation to you, in the eyes of God and man this accident could be seen as a blessed release from far worse.’
The slightest of changes in Alf’s demeanour assured Sykes that his kind lie had hit home. The two men walked through the graveyard, saying little. The dog trotted sedately behind, as if understanding the seriousness of this visit.
Sykes had a feeling that Alf might begin to recover in the not too far off future, and when he did there might be something else that he would remember. As they returned to the cemetery gates, Sykes handed his business card to Alf. ‘If any more details of that dream come to you, will you let me know? The mind can play strange tricks.’
Alf became suddenly animated. ‘That’s what I think. And see, it doesn’t help me to be in that tram depot day after day.’ They crossed the street. ‘Superintendent put me in the office, working out timetables based on when each route is busiest.’
‘How does that work?’
‘From ticketing information.’
‘Sounds like a complicated job.’
‘It suits me. Only…’
‘Only what?’
‘I overheard one of the lads. He said, “All you’ve got to do in this place is kill a pedestrian and they promote you”.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘They laughed. Some of them laughed.’
‘Fellers at work laugh at anything. I ought to know. I was a copper. Pay them no heed.’
‘Easier said than done.’
‘Tell you what, if you’re not rushing back inside, will you walk me to the station? Once I’m on the wrong side of the city walls I’m liable to walk in circles.’
Another lie, but Alf swallowed it. The two men and the dog walked back along Cemetery Road. Sykes began to think there was something in this theory about the death not being an accident. A man mindful enough to avoid treading on graves, who avoided cracks in the pavement, and so attentive as to be given the responsibility of timetabling the corporation’s trams, was too careful not to have seen a strolling pedestrian.
The man needed a different job and a change of scene.
Once within the city walls, Sykes took a pause. ‘Will you do a bit of a detour with me, Alf? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
‘Oh aye, who’s that then?’
‘A man who offered me a job in his insurance office yesterday, only I couldn’t take it.’
The detour took them towards Goodramgate. They strolled in companionable silence. When they were almost at the offices of the Jorvik Insurance Company, Sykes asked, ‘Tell me, Alf, how tall was Douglas Dougan?’
‘I’d say about five feet ten.’
‘And in your dream, the figure in black, can you say anything about him or her?’
Alf slowed his step. ‘Funny you should say him or her.’
‘Why?’
‘Because in the dream the creature in black is not as tall, maybe five feet five. The first time I had the dream, I woke with an odd thought.’
‘And what was that thought?’
‘No wonder that person couldn’t save him. Douglas Dougan was a big fellow and the smaller creature, the demon, couldn’t pull him out of the way.’
‘The demon?’
‘Well, only because it’s my own demon, isn’t it? The wife knows a bit about dreams. She and our lasses work at Rowntree’s Chocolates. They’re all for interpreting dreams over the conveyor belt.’
They walked in silence, Sykes still thinking of the demon in Alf’s dream. A little demon might not be able to save a man from tripping under a tram, but that demon would be capable of giving a person a good shove.
They arrived at the branch office of the Jorvik Insurance Company.
‘Here we are, Alf. You wait here two minutes while I pop inside. If the manager still needs a clerk, I’ll mind the dog while you go in and have a word.’
Twenty-Five
The Dark Depths
Before I had driven a mile from Gledhow Lodge towards the town centre, Mrs Compton’s misgivings about our mission to go below the city streets grew.
‘I don’t like rats, and there’ll be rats.’
She was right. There are stories of an army of rats, led by a rat general, taking control of the upper streets at night. This rodent platoon has been seen leaving the market at two o’clock in the morning and marching twenty abreast and fifty or a hundred deep along Briggate, heading in an easterly direction towards the graveyard of St John’s Church. I had no more desire to enter underground tunnels, passageways and hidden places during daylight hours than to meet General Rat and his platoon by night.
I spoke confidently. ‘Rats will be more afraid of us than we are of them.’
‘Do you think so?’
We were on Roundhay Road. I pulled in. ‘Would you rather we find someone else to do this? We could report your fears to the police. I’m sure they’d instigate a search.’
‘That would knock Jarrod’s confidence entirely. The last thing he would want would be to have the police pick him up.’ She interlocked her gloved fingers and wiggled her thumbs. ‘We can do this.’
‘Good.’ I set off again.
I needed to find Jarrod and speak to him. Might I be able to judge whether he was a man capable of murdering Billy Moffatt, his best friend and best man who, according to Mrs Compton’s information, became his wife’s lover? Jealousy and revenge would be a powerful motive. Jarrod seemed able to come and go at will, thanks to his motorcycle and knowledge of both the theatre and his old school. He was clever. He had spoken to Billy during the party. As an old boy of Giggleswick School, creating a poison would not present a difficulty.
Roundhay Road was quiet, apart from the tram and a delivery boy on a bicycle. On the pavement, three women, baskets in hand, stood talking but turned to look as the car passed. Such stares always made me feel a little bit like royalty. I resisted the urge to give a gracious wave. My passenger sat very alert as we drove towards town. She looked straight ahead, absorbed in her own thoughts, perhaps preparing to come face to face with her errant former soldier son.
Now that I had quelled Mrs Compton’s misgivings, I felt a slight concern. Selina’s cheque for two hundred pounds lay on my dining room table. If I was wrong about the wisdom of this excursion, perhaps I might never cash it. Turning to Mrs Compton, I gave her a reassuring smile, while considering how best to go about this adventure.
Aware of my look, Mrs Compton glanced back. ‘When he was little, I could kiss him better.’
Jarrod Compton had been damaged in combat. For that reason alone, I felt duty bound to help his mother search for him. Yet Mrs Compton was a smart, intelligent woman who might not want me to find Jarrod for Selina. Perhaps she, too, suspected him of murder. If so, the person who ended up in the deep dark passages under the city might be me.
If we did find a way to descend into this abandoned other world, which one of us should lead the way? If I led the way, that would give her courage. But if I did lead the way and bumped into Jarrod, he might overreact.
We neared the town centre. At the petrol station at the bottom of Eastgate, I bought fuel. Mrs Compton took out her purse and offered to pay for the petrol. I thanked her but refused.
I thought it a good thing that the petrol attendant saw us together and would remember my car. If we disappeared into the netherworld, he would be a witness.
I turned left into Briggate. Swan Street, home of the City Varieties Music Hall, was on my right. ‘Keep going,’ she said. ‘I know the way to the tunnel through the Empire Palace.’
I stopped the car outside the splendid Empire Palace Theatre with its twin globes and statue aloft. As I looked about the busy thoroughfare, and saw so many people going about their business, taking not a jot of notice of anyone else, it struck me as absurd that Jarrod would go below ground to avoid being stared at. People were used to men who trembled, were missing a limb, had faces burned and scarred. What could be so terrible about his injuries that he could not get over them, and that he wanted to hide?
Mrs Compton climbed out of the car. She looked longingly at the Empire Palace Theatre. ‘I danced here. It was one of our troupe’s first engagements back in ’89. I was just eighteen.’
‘That must have been grand.’
‘It was. If Selina had any class about her, this is where she’d be playing now. You can’t beat a Frank Matcham theatre. He knew what he was doing. He had vision, not like architects these days. Have you seen the monstrosity of a house Selina had thrown up in Roundhay?’
‘I have, and I think it’s marvellous.’
She gave a scoffing snort. ‘No accounting for tastes. Shall we go in and make a start?’
‘You said that you know an entrance. Where is it?’
‘We find our way into the Empire and down into the basement. That’s where we’ll find the tunnel that runs to the Varieties, if it hasn’t been blocked up.’
‘Are you really sure that’s the way Jarrod would have gone?’
‘Jarrod is well known by everyone at the Verts.’
The Verts! I smiled. In spite of her expressed preference for the Empire Palace, she had given the City Varieties Music Hall its affectionate nickname.
She looked along the road in the direction of the Music Hall. ‘If it’s true that no one saw him arrive or leave, this is all I can think of. And from the state of mind he has been in these past few months, it would fit. He would be determined to deliver his songs to Selina, and fearful of getting into some scrape along the way.’
We were blocking the pavement. A young chap carrying a document case stepped round us.
‘Mrs Compton, I want to do just a little more preparation. We have your torch, and that’s all.’ I glanced across the road at the Kardomah Café. ‘Come on. We’re going to have a coffee and make a plan, see what else we might need.’
She was about to answer. Now that she had mustered her courage, she wanted to jump straight in. Without waiting for a reply, I crossed. Reluctantly, she followed.
We stepped through the doors of the Kardomah and breathed in the aroma of coffee. An assistant w
as grinding beans for a waiting customer. A waitress led us to a small round table at the back. Not knowing how long we might be below ground, I ordered a sandwich and so did she. We would share a pot of coffee.
‘How did you come to know about the way into the tunnels from the Empire Palace?’ I asked.
Mrs Compton took off her gloves and slipped them into her bag. ‘You’ll have heard of Sir Oswald Stoll?’
‘The theatre man?’
Death in the Stars Page 21