by Nancy Revell
‘We have talked through what you want. And I have explained to you what to expect and what not to expect.’ He started to cough and took a drink of water. ‘We have agreed a fee.’
Miriam nodded. She was feeling more than a little out of her depth, but she was just about managing to keep her head above water. She had always left anything official to either Jack or her father; her domain had always been restricted to that expected of a wife and mother.
‘Yes, we have. And I’m satisfied with what we have discussed and agreed,’ Miriam said, ‘but I have to ask who will be doing the actual …’ she paused whilst she found the word she was looking for ‘… the legwork, as such?’
Mr Pickering took off his glasses and smiled good-naturedly.
‘Well, as you’ve rightly guessed, I’m no spring chicken and not really up to the kind of running around this work entails.’
Mr Pickering started to stuff tobacco into a pipe that had been lying on its side next to his glass of water.
‘As you probably noticed when you came in,’ he waved the hand now holding the pipe towards the entrance, ‘the sign on the door reads, “Pickering & Sons”.’
Miriam nodded.
‘It’s a family business,’ she volunteered. ‘You have help.’
‘Precisely,’ Mr Pickering said, getting to his feet and making his way around the huge wooden desk. He extended a bony, arthritic hand to Miriam, who took it as she stood up.
‘Come back in ten days and we’ll see what we have for you,’ he said, smiling.
Miriam smiled back.
Just then the young woman appeared again from the next room and gave the six documents back to Mr Pickering. She retreated to where she had come from without uttering a word. Miriam thought there was something a little unnerving about the girl’s quietness.
Taking the documents from Mr Pickering, Miriam carefully folded them so as not to crease them too much before putting them back into her handbag.
Mr Pickering guided Miriam back towards the door and opened it for her. Judging by the woman’s attire, she was clearly from money, although Mr Pickering would have been just as courteous had she been dressed in rags.
‘So, shall we say two weeks?’
‘Yes, two weeks,’ Miriam agreed before she walked out of the front door and found herself back in the fog and on the corner of High Street West and Bridge Street.
She was tempted to head straight back to the Grand and have another drink. She certainly needed it, but her work for today was far from done.
As she waved her arm to a passing taxi, which saw her at the last moment and came to an abrupt halt, causing the vehicle behind it to blow its horn loudly, Miriam knew what she had to do next could only be done face to face. There were a few nosy parkers working on the telephone exchange and she couldn’t risk the conversation she was about to have with her father being overheard by anyone at all.
By the time Miriam had hailed her black cab, Mr Pickering had seated himself back behind his desk and was lighting his pipe, making short puffing noises as the tobacco started to burn.
Opposite him was the young girl, who was now occupying the chair where Miriam had sat. In her hand, she had a pen and a notepad into which she had copied the details of the women welders’ employment records.
‘That’s a lot of work there, my dear,’ the old man said. As he talked he let out a billowing cloud of smoke. ‘Are you sure you can manage it all?’
‘Of course I can, Father,’ the young girl smiled.
Chapter Thirty-One
Sunderland Borough Police Headquarters, Gillbridge Avenue, Sunderland
Monday 22 December 1941
‘I’ve gorra great big lump the size of an egg on the side of ma head!’ Vinnie shouted through the small oblong hole in the middle of his cell door. He had no idea who he was shouting at, only that there had to be someone on duty.
‘Ya can’t keep us here for ever, ya know!’ Vinnie paused and listened for any noises that might tell him he was not wasting his breath and someone could indeed hear him.
His head jerked as he caught what sounded like a door closing.
Someone had just come in, or gone out.
‘I need medical help!’ This time he yelled as loudly as he could. If the person was leaving, then they’d still hear him.
Vinnie turned away from the door and sat back down on the hard wooden bench that had been his bed for the past three nights. One more night spent trapped inside these four walls and he thought he might just go mad.
Not only was he gagging for a beer followed by a good few chasers, he couldn’t stand being alone with his own thoughts. He’d never liked being on his own and never would. God only knew how anyone survived being locked up for months, never mind years, on end. It was beyond him. Three days had felt like a lifetime. He honestly felt he’d end up round the bend if he was kept in much longer.
‘Vincent Armstrong.’ The voice sounded deep and low on the other side of the two-inch-thick metal door. Vinnie stared at the steel panelling as he heard a key being jammed into the lock and turned.
He immediately got up and marched towards the door.
Before he saw the face that went with the voice – a voice he was sure he recognised – he felt two strong hands shove him hard.
Vinnie tottered backwards, and in an almost slapstick fashion his bum plopped back down on the bench.
When he looked up he saw the back of a man, dressed in a three-quarter-length black overcoat, shutting the cell door.
This did not feel at all right and Vinnie panicked. The cell was small and now there were two people in it, it felt even smaller. As the man turned around and stepped towards him, Vinnie instantly recognised the thick mop of grey-speckled hair and the slightly jaded look on the older man’s face.
It was the copper from the morning of the christening! The one who had arrested him.
The one who had stopped him getting to the church in time to see the child that he now knew was not his!
The one who had stopped him giving Gloria what for.
Well, Mr High-and-Mighty Detective might have put the stoppers on him that day, but he’d not been able to prevent him giving Gloria her just deserts on Friday, had he?
Vinnie would have spoken his thoughts out loud had there not been something a tad menacing about the man.
‘I’m afraid the “help” you need, Vincent, far exceeds anything “medical”,’ Peter said.
Vinnie immediately felt the familiar anger that was always lying close to the surface flare up at the audacity of the man calling him ‘Vincent’.
No one called him Vincent! No one, that was, apart from his mother.
Vinnie made to stand up, but Peter placed two hands on his shoulders and pushed him down so that he landed with a thump back on the bench. As he did so, Vinnie clocked the black leather gloves the detective was wearing – and it was then that the penny dropped.
He was the mystery man in the balaclava who had beaten seven bells out of him that night down the alley by the side of his local – the man who had threatened him and told him that if he ever touched Gloria again, he would be drinking his beer through a straw.
He knew the voice was familiar when he’d been arrested last!
‘You still like supping beer, Vincent?’ Peter asked, as if they were just two men enjoying a bit of idle chit-chat. ‘You still get down the Grindon Mill most nights?’
Vinnie felt himself grow cold. If there had been the slightest uncertainty about this being the balaclava man, then these two apparently innocuous questions dispelled any kind of doubt.
Vinnie looked nervously behind the detective at the closed door of his cell.
‘Hey, Sergeant,’ he shouted out, ‘I want my brief.’
Peter let out a hollow laugh.
‘There’s just you and me, Vincent,’ he said calmly. ‘You can scream your head off, but no one’s going to hear you down here. And the sergeant you seem so keen on has been called away on urgen
t business. He told me he’s going to be gone for a good while.’
Peter looked down at Vinnie’s face, which was becoming paler by the second.
Vinnie’s head jerked towards the adjoining cell, causing Peter to let loose another mirthless laugh.
‘You don’t think there’s anyone else down here, do you? Not with Christmas just a few days away? Looks like you’ve got the place to yourself.’ Peter again used the same tone, as if he were simply exchanging pleasantries with an old friend.
What Vinnie didn’t know was that Peter had no idea whether the cells on either side were occupied or not. And as far as the custody sergeant was concerned, he had told Peter he needed the little boys’ room and asked would he mind ‘holding the fort’ until he was back?
‘Yer can’t do this!’ Vinnie was now shuffling backwards on the bench so that he was up against the wall. ‘It’s against the law!’
‘Do what, Vincent?’ Peter said, his brow furrowed as if he was genuinely puzzled. ‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ he asked, but he had already done so before Vinnie had time to reply.
The two men were now side by side.
Peter moved his hand quickly and Vinnie flinched.
‘Don’t worry, Vincent,’ Peter said, as he reached for the inside pocket of his coat. ‘I’m not going to hurt you …’ He paused and looked Vinnie straight in the eye. ‘Providing – ’ he pulled out an official form and slowly straightened it out with his gloved hand ‘ – that you agree that the suggestion I’m going to make is the best way forward in this very difficult situation you find yourself in.’
The fearful look on Vinnie’s face began to be infused with curiosity.
‘First of all, I’m a man of my word, and if I make a promise I always keep it.’ Peter let his words sink in as Vinnie considered a life of supping ale through a straw.
‘Secondly, I’ve got a very peculiar gift of being able to see into the future.’ Peter paused again.
Vinnie was now looking at him as if he were certifiable, which was just the impression Peter had been hoping to create.
‘And when I look into my crystal ball, I see a charge of grievous bodily harm, along with another, equally serious charge of “making threats to kill” that, I’m sure you can remember, relates back to a month ago during your abortive little attempt to go to a christening in the east end.’
Another pause. Vinnie felt the anger start to bubble up again as he recalled being restrained by this man, who he now knew was actually a nut job hiding behind the socially acceptable façade of holier-than-thou detective.
‘Ya bastard!’ Vinnie spat the words out.
Peter didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘As there is plentiful evidence to corroborate these charges,’ Peter continued, his face impassive, ‘I see your length of incarceration in HMP Durham being a minimum one of six months to a year. And that goes alongside the unofficial punishment you will receive at the hands of your fellow inmates when they find out the man serving time on their wing is a wife batterer.’
Vinnie could feel his heart starting to hammer at the thought of being in prison, trapped in a six-by-eight cell, alone and controlled by a load of sadistic wardens. His mate down the pub had done time and in his words those in charge were ‘a breed apart’ – and got away with blue murder.
But it was other inmates, his drinking buddy had told him, that could do the most damage. If they got wind that you were in for any kind of crime committed against a child or a woman, you’d be what for. Men on the outside might turn a blind eye to men who abused women and children, but on the inside, well, that was a different kettle of fish. Vinnie was in no doubt that his fellow prisoners would turn on him like rabid animals and rip him apart if they found out what he had done to Gloria.
Vinnie’s anger started to recede and his fear began to grow as he sat there and Peter’s clearly articulated words sank in.
‘But,’ Peter said, his voice lifting and becoming upbeat as he raised the papers he was holding in the air, ‘there is an alternative.’
Fighting a growing feeling of nausea, Vinnie watched as Peter laid the papers on his lap and smoothed them out with the palm of his gloved hand.
Now Vinnie could see exactly what they were. The heading on the form was big and bold: APPLICATION FOR ENLISTMENT.
Vinnie started shaking his head, his whole being rebelling.
‘Nah, mate. No way. I did my bit in the so-called “war to end all wars”.’ Vinnie let out a bitter laugh. ‘Anyways, I’m too old.’
‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Vincent,’ Peter said, now sounding like a teacher talking to his pupil. ‘Let me explain.’
Peter smiled in a way that reminded Vinnie he was not dealing with a sane man.
‘You see, on the eighteenth of this month the powers-that-be changed the law and created a new, second National Service Act.’
Another smile.
‘They have decided,’ Peter said, ‘that all unmarried women aged between twenty and thirty – bar those who are pregnant or have children under fourteen – have to do some kind of war work. But of course, all of this isn’t any of your concern, is it, Vincent?’ The question was clearly rhetorical.
‘What does apply to you,’ Peter stressed, ‘is that they also decided that all men aged fifty-one and under have to go into military service, unless, of course, they are in some kind of reserved occupation. Even those aged up to sixty now have to do some kind of national service – so, you see, Vincent, everyone has to do their bit, regardless of age.’
Vinnie sat staring at Peter, his mind working overtime.
‘So, what’s it to be, Vincent?’ Peter asked, still in his headmaster role. ‘A stay in His Majesty’s Prison? With an enthusiastic welcoming committee, who will also make good my promise to you from earlier on this year. Or signing up to serve your country?’
He looked at Vinnie, who appeared to have been struck dumb.
‘But, actually – ’ Peter gave a look as though he’d just been struck by an idea ‘ – you know what, this little powwow we’re having is rather a waste of breath because when you’ve served your sentence, you’ll be forced to enlist anyway. And if you were thinking you’d worm your way out of conscription by getting a job in some kind of reserved occupation, then think again. With your criminal record, no one will touch you with a bargepole.’
Peter chuckled and nudged Vinnie as if they were having playful banter and just joshing around.
‘So, your decision, Vincent, is absurdly easy, don’t you think? It’s either all of the above, or a nice change of scenery. A free train journey to Portsmouth, and food and board courtesy of the Royal Navy. You might even see a bit of the world – I hear they’re doing regular trips across the Arctic to Russia at the moment.’
Peter looked at Vinnie. His expression said it all. He was in a corner and there was only one way out.
‘So, what’s it to be, Vincent?’
Vinnie could feel the panic start to swell rapidly inside him. He wanted to run, to escape, but as his eyes darted from wall to wall and then to the closed cell door, he knew this was a physical impossibility. He was trapped. Just like he would be if he was sent down. There would be no escape. He couldn’t batter his way out of this problem.
He could feel sweat start to form on his forehead. His anger was now ebbing away fast. This, he realised, was one fight he wasn’t going to win.
Vinnie looked at the detective sitting next to him, now calmly looking around the cell. The man was a certified lunatic, but even worse than that, he was a madman with the power to send him to his own personal hell if he so chose.
Vinnie’s eyes flickered again down to the papers in DS Miller’s hands. He sat for a few minutes without saying a word. His heart felt as though it was hammering like a fist inside his chest. Finally, he took a shaky breath, put out his now trembling hand, and reached for the piece of official documentation Peter was holding.
Forlorn and beaten, Vinnie flicked through the
pages until he got to the end, where his signature was needed.
‘Good man,’ Peter said, digging around in his jacket pocket and retrieving a pen.
He watched as Vinnie signed and dated the document and handed it back to him.
‘Right then.’ Peter stood up, shoving the forms back into his jacket pocket. ‘Let’s get you out of here!’ He knew that time was of the essence if he was to make his final move to push Vinnie into checkmate.
‘What, now?’ Vinnie looked taken aback.
‘Of course!’ Peter said. ‘Unless you want me to come back for you tomorrow?’
Vinnie jumped to his feet and grabbed his jacket, which he had been using as a pillow at the end of the bench.
‘No, no, now’s good,’ he said, desperate to get out of this cell that seemed to be closing in on him by the minute. He pulled on his coat, pushed his few remaining strands of hair back across his balding head, and followed Peter out.
‘Ah, DS Gregson,’ Peter said, stepping out of the cell and finding his colleague back behind his counter. ‘Looks like Mr Armstrong here is eager to do his patriotic duty.’ Peter reached over the counter and pulled out the large hard-backed ledger that was used to sign prisoners in and out.
‘Oh aye?’ DS Gregson asked, wiping some crumbs from the corner of his mouth. He had been distracted by the delivery of some complimentary pastries from a café called Vera’s. The skeleton staff at the Borough Police headquarters had all gathered at the front desk as the pretty young woman who had made the delivery at exactly ten o’clock had asked to hand over the treats personally to all the coppers, one by one.
‘Vincent here is joining – or should I say rejoining – the Royal Navy,’ Peter explained as he signed Vinnie out.
‘Well done, my man!’ DS Gregson said. He had been chatting to Peter yesterday about this particular collar. The prosecutor for the Crown had looked over the case and had decided it was unlikely to make it to court.
‘The usual reasons,’ DS Gregson had told Peter resignedly. ‘It’s a domestic. And even though the victim’s not living with him any more, they’re still married, and if the rumour mill is true, it won’t look good that she’s been having it off with someone else, and worse still, has had a bairn with her bit on the side.’