Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  ‘Right, but I don’t think they’ – he nodded towards the fly-boat crews – ‘saw it that way.’

  ‘Oh well, I expect they were frightened you might be taking their jobs.’

  ‘Not much chance of that.’

  ‘Anyway, he seemed all right, did he? Minchin?’

  ‘Oh yeah, for him, you know. Always a bit of a misery but, matter of fact, he was more matey than usual. Felt out of it a bit, same as me, I reckon.’

  ‘Didn’t say anything which might indicate…’

  ‘Nuffink, nuffink. I was as amazed as the next man.’

  ‘Bit chippy was he?’

  ‘No, as I says, seemed all right to me.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone following him into the trees?’

  Grealey shook his head. ‘No, like I said, we was only jawing for half a crack, we was busy.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Smith casually, then held up a warning finger. ‘Mr Best might want another word with you – just for the record you understand.’ He did his best to make it sound of little importance.

  ‘Anything I can do, just say,’ said Grealey piously. ‘That poor woman.’ He shook his head, ‘’Ow he could do that, I dunno.’

  As far as Smith could tell the man seemed unperturbed. ‘Right, thanks,’ he said, patting the loader’s arm and turning to go. As he did so, Grealey took a sudden step forward, put his hand out to halt the constable and exclaimed, ‘They think …‘ Then he recovered himself enough to lower his voice and mutter conversationally, ‘They think he just topped himself then, do they?’

  ‘Between you and me,’ Smith confided, ‘that’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so.’

  ‘But we’ve got to make enquiries. You know how it is.’

  ‘Oh, I does, I does.’ He returned the farewell salute of his new-found friend and went back to his work.

  PC Smith sat in Mrs Minchin’s shabby front room drinking tea from an unmatching cup and saucer and watching the lady finish her ironing. She did it quite well. Not as well as his mother, of course. Not so organized. But she looked pretty doing it and the new little jet brooch at her neck sparkled in the firelight as she moved.

  Indeed, he was surprised at how much better she looked since her husband’s death, despite the fact she had been so worried about him when he last saw her. The room was brighter, too; indeed there was a vase of golden chrysanthemums on what passed as a sideboard and a lady’s magazine on the rickety table. How had she managed to afford those? Wasn’t she supposed to be penniless? He shrugged, maybe the company had sent them – or a friend. That’s what it must be. A friend had brought them to cheer her up.

  He was not there to see Mrs Minchin, he reminded himself, but young George. While he was down at the City Road Basin he thought he might as well pop in to see how the lad was getting on with his drawing. Despite the wild goose chase, he liked the little fellow. Being from a large family himself he was used to having kids around and missed them now he lived in the section house.

  But George was out playing. Mrs Minchin knew not where but said he should be in shortly, what with evening coming on, his supper waiting to be demolished, and having that new toy fort to play with. So his namesake had a cup of tea which he would have been churlish to refuse, and chatted to Mrs Minchin while he waited.

  The time passed surprisingly quickly. Mrs Minchin regaled him with stories of her trip to Marsworth which, since she had never been north of the Holloway Road before, had obviously been a great adventure for her. And one she related with a certain mischievous humour, too, particularly when it came to describing the ministrations of a certain Mr Cheadle.

  Her picture of the Chief Inspector was one Smith had the greatest difficulty in recognizing, so he presumed she must be exaggerating wildly – but nonetheless to great effect. He watched, transfixed by the way she raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes in wonder as she recalled all the sights she had seen, and even laughed once or twice. No doubt, there was something about the woman. Occasionally, a catch in her voice or a mistiness of her eye indicated an underlying sadness. Maybe she cried on her own at night. That’s what his mother had done. Maybe she didn’t really care?

  ‘Sam Grealey saw your husband on the canal that night,’ he said suddenly, then was immediately sorry. Her face whitened instantly and all joy drained from it.

  She went on ironing and whispered, ‘He never said.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t want to upset you.’

  She gave him a look which suggested that the thought of Sam Grealey being sensitive was an alien one. Interesting in itself, thought Smith.

  She frowned. ‘Why was he on the canal?’

  ‘Helping out, like your husband,’ he said kindly, trying to get back to the previous intimacy, ‘but he was on his way down, not up.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much. Nothing of any use anyway. Just saw him in passing.’ He paused, then said, ‘He didn’t notice anything wrong.’

  There were no more tantalizing tales of the trip to Marsworth. She was lost now in her ironing and her thoughts. He would have given a lot to know what these were. Somehow he felt they were important. He was about to press her further when a sharp knock at the door brought them both back to reality. Mrs Minchin went over to the window, peered out through the curtains, turned with a puzzled look and, flatteringly, beckoned Smith to share the view and perhaps solve the mystery. Standing so close to her waiflike body made Smith feel immensely tall, protective, very masculine, and quite excited. The vision which met his eyes through the window quickly deflated him. It was that awful female, Helen Franks.

  Miss Franks, it appeared, had come to see Mrs Minchin merely to express her condolences. Smith thought it much more likely that she had come to discover what was happening, how much Mrs Minchin knew, and whether, in fact, it was likely that Mrs Minchin’s husband had killed her sister. He couldn’t tell her they had a possible identification of the victim in case it raised her hopes, but managed her easy removal from the Minchin household with the hint that he did have some news. His mind was a morass of confusion as to what it would be all right for her to know and what it would not, but he decided that a quick résumé of his inquiries about Minchin’s movements on the night would not harm, and the doubt about his suicide might divert her sufficiently to stop her hounding Mrs Minchin.

  Carried away by his tale and made careless by tiredness, he also allowed Sam Grealey’s sighting of Minchin to creep into the story before sensing he had said too much. Realizing his error, he followed it up quickly with another titbit and breathed a sigh that, with luck, she had not noticed. He was wrong.

  He left her waiting for an omnibus home but as soon as he turned the corner she walked away from the stop – towards City Road Basin. Helen Franks was sick and tired of all this shilly-shallying, she wanted to know what was going on and she sensed that Sam Grealey might be just the one to tell her.

  The Great Hall at Euston Railway Station was one of the grandest places Constable Smith had ever seen. It was not his first visit, he had been there many times before, but its Romanesque columns and marble staircases never failed to impress him. This, and the hustle and bustle of railway travel always excited him. Such a mix of people – from the grandest, first-class travellers surrounded by scurrying servants, fussily shepherding hampers and elegant leather portmanteaux – to the pathetically poor, with their cloth bundles and anxious expressions. Smith was here to meet one particular, second-class passenger carrying one small carpet bag.

  He would have been happy to have lingered but Sergeant Ernest Best was due in any minute, so he hurried past the statue of George Stephenson on through to the arrival platform in the more workaday, but still impressive, train shed. His Sergeant had decided his aims would be better served by returning to London that night, instead of the following day as scheduled, much to Smith’s relief. He was pleased he had decided to pop into the Yard in the hope of catching a senior officer to con
sult, and had spied Best’s telegraph instead.

  When Helen spied the Grand Junction wharf gate, she realized that to gain entry she must either demand to see Mr Thornley, whom she had met at the Regent’s Park explosion inquest, or adopt a humbler pose and sneak in among the lorries, carts and wagons and canal folk toing and froing through them. But Albert Thornley might not be there. What then? In any case, making it formal was not what she wanted. She would not get much from Grealey under the watchful eye of his boss.

  Drawing her grey shawl more tightly over her black coat, she lowered her head and opted for the humble. Thank goodness she limited bright colours to her artist’s palette. Her sombre dress had not been arrived at accidentally or through any personal tastes. She dressed thus because she had discovered that an unremarkable appearance served an independent-minded woman best, by limiting her visibility. The strategy stood her in good stead once again. She waited until a brace of carts and a group of people were entering and mingled with them while the gate-keeper was distracted. She was in. Now what?

  Tired, cold and dirty from his journey though he was, Best felt pleased and excited about what Smith had learned of Grealey and confirmed that the man had not told him he had been on the canal that night. It followed he must have something to hide.

  Grealey and Thornley kept popping up in this drama like rabbits out of a magician’s hat. This time, he must not let his quarry go but, like Smith, he was at first unsure how to proceed. His first instincts were to rush down to City Road Basin and beard the pair in their den. But where was the evidence? It was that pair who had put them on Minchin’s trail and Grealey had been on the canal that night and been seen talking to Minchin but had not told them. Grealey was a one for the ladies but that was no crime. It could be a motive though.

  Mary Elizabeth had made regular visits to the wharves to deliver and collect her post. Grealey could have made her acquaintance then. A lovers’ tiff? Had she had become a burden? Had she repelled his advances? The oldest and the commonest motives were the most likely, as Cheadle would doubtless have lectured them.

  But where did Albert Thornley fit in? Had both been involved with the woman? Unlikely when she had lost her previous employment through her objections to the advances of her employer. Couldn’t quite see the everanxious Albert Thornley in that light, either, but maybe he was anxious for a reason other than the company’s problems.

  ‘I need time to think,’ Best told the eagerly awaiting Smith. He also wanted to see Helen Franks, so when Smith began burbling on about their meeting and how he thought they should tell her the victim was not her sister as soon as possible he made a sudden decision. He hailed a cab and directed him to the Holland Park address. He could do his thinking en route – if Smith would just shut up for a minute.

  Helen was passed on towards her quarry by several puzzled workmen, too busy and preoccupied to allow their puzzlement to develop further. She found Sam Grealey guiding a sack of sugar from a hoist into a fly boat. It seemed obvious by his agitated concentration and bad-tempered reactions to the hoist operator’s placings that he was trying to hurry the task and making mistakes in the process. She waited until he had the sack stowed and was watching for the next one before calling out to him. He glanced at her with puzzlement and irritation.

  ‘Mr Grealey?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he grunted, his arms already extended, awaiting their next burden.

  ‘Can I talk to you?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s a private matter.’

  He had the next sack in his arms and was frowning at it, ‘Aren’t you the sister of … of that missing girl?’

  ‘Yes, Matilda Franks. It’s about her.’

  That got his full attention. He stared at her. ‘I don’t know nothing about her! Why should I know anything about her?’

  ‘I’m not saying you do. I … I’d just like some advice.’ This was hopeless.

  Grealey turned his back to bed down another sack bound for Leicester then turned. ‘Don’t know what I can tell you. Anyways, I’m behind here, can’t stop.’ He was panting a little.

  ‘Oh, please … help me …’

  ‘You’ll have to wait until I’ve finished. This here’s due out in an hour.’ He looked around the side of the wooden crate now in his grasp, ‘Go and sit over there among them boxes,’ he ordered, indicating a spot against the warehouse wall before returning to his task. He looked tense. ‘But you’re wastin’ your time,’ he called after her, then muttered to himself, ‘What the ’ell’s goin’ on?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Grealey showed no sign of being finished yet and the night air was getting distinctly chilly. Helen was certain she had already been sitting for much more than an hour, trying to look inconspicuous, against the wall of the warehouse.

  Looking inconspicuous became more difficult as work on other craft ceased and the men drifted away out of the gates or set off in the boats. Grealey had been telling the truth. He was well behind with his loading. The last, in fact. But although this thinning out at first caused her to become more conspicuous, eventually her small figure was almost lost in the shadows as the many lights were dowsed or dwindled away when boats left.

  They disappeared even more quickly as fog began to descend, settle, and thicken about her.

  Coming here had been a mistake; she realized that now. Her vigil had given her time to mull over what she was going to ask Grealey, but rather than clarifying her thoughts they had become more confused. What did she expect to get from him? If that Sergeant Best had done his job properly, she thought bitterly, this action would not have been necessary. Nevertheless, she began to wish he was here with his certainties, his cheerful demeanour, his shiny boots and his warm brown eyes.

  Mrs Briggs’s usually equable and sensible demeanour had deserted her and been replaced by agitation.

  ‘Miss Helen’s not here!’ she exclaimed, when Best asked to see her mistress. ‘She hasn’t come home!’

  Best’s hand trembled slightly as he reached into his vest pocket for his half-hunter. It was after midnight, 12.45 a.m., in fact. ‘She must have been held up somewhere.’

  ‘No, no. She would have told me. She knows how much I worry, particularly since Matilda went missing.’ Her eyes widened as the thought suddenly bore in on her that Helen, too, might not return. She put her hand over her mouth as though stopping further words would prevent the dreadful reality.

  ‘But people don’t always know when they might be late.’

  Mrs Briggs shushed him with a gesture. ‘She’s never this late! Never.’

  Best patted her hand. ‘The fog must have held her up. It did us. The cabbie got lost.’ He paused, ‘Now, did she say where she was going?’

  She looked uncertain, then embarrassed, ‘Oh, I might as well tell you,’ she shrugged. ‘She was going to see Mrs Minchin.’

  He quelled Smith with a sharp glance. ‘I see. Well, that’s a long way, and it does get very foggy down there, near the canal. We’ll wait a little while.’ He smiled gently. ‘We would love a cup of tea.’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course.’ She brushed vainly at her wet eyes. ‘I’m so glad you are here. I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘You told me she was on her way home when you left her!’ he accused Smith, as soon as the housekeeper was out of earshot.

  ‘She was, Sergeant, she was. I left her at the omnibus stop.’

  ‘But you didn’t wait to see her get on?’

  ‘No. She said she was perfectly all right and just told me to go – that she wasn’t a baby and it was insulting to a woman to be treated like one.’

  That sounded like Helen.

  Best knew his concern was probably out of proportion. The woman was an adult and a damned difficult one. But, he discerned, Smith’s guilty demeanour was somewhat out of proportion as well. His eyes narrowed and he looked directly at his colleague. Then, placing great emphasis on every word, he said slowly, ‘There is something you haven’t told me.’r />
  Smith was no tight-lipped villain with wits honed by experience to resist the Sergeant’s accusations. Indeed, it was the lad’s very openness that had landed him in this situation. ‘I didn’t mean to,’ he protested, ‘I mean, I know I shouldn’t have,’ Smith pleaded, ‘it just sort of slipped out …’

  ‘What did!’ hissed Best. ‘Tell me what!’

  ‘I told her what I’d found out about Grealey.’

  At last Grealey was finished. Now, he stood before Helen, wiping his hands down the sides of his trousers, his expression hostile and suspicious. ‘Well,’ he grated, ‘what d’you want with me, then?’ He had taken her around the side of the warehouse while he collected his belongings.

  ‘I just hoped you might be able to help me regarding my sister …’ The true foolishness of her action had sunk in as she realized how quiet, dark and deserted the wharf had become. She must not show her fear. There must at least be a nightwatchman about. She tried to look Grealey in the eye, but her eyes kept straying to his bulging biceps which he was flexing and unflexing.

  ‘Why should I know your sister?’ he snapped, not making the least attempt to be polite.

  Helen bristled. ‘I think you might just hear me out.’

  ‘Why should I? What are you to me?’ His eyes were angry and hard, ‘Just another bloody interfering, difficult woman.’ He turned his back and began to walk off.

  She must stop him going, ‘I know you knew her!’ she shouted, wildly. ‘I have evidence that you knew her.’

  He stopped sharply in his tracks then turned slowly to look at her. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, woman!’ he yelled. ‘She was no sister of yours. Your sister would be posh …’

  The silence grew thunderous as the portent of what he had just said struck home to both of them. Helen froze as Grealey stepped menacingly towards her.

  The dense fog not only provided a possible reason for the non-arrival of Helen, it greatly hampered Best and Smith as they tried to find a cab to take them down to the City Road Basin. The ranks were empty. The few vehicles stumbling along the roads were either carrying passengers already, their anxious faces peering around the hoods trying to assist in the wearisome business of identifying their whereabouts, or were driven by cabbies bent only on finding their own way home.