‘Yes, ma’am. He’s Mr James. I think he’s a commercial traveller or something.’
The waitress studied the ground as she spoke; her hands were clasped together in front of her. Jill realised with a rush of distaste that the woman was scared of Charlotte – and perhaps scared of her, too.
They went outside into a sunlit winter day. Charlotte looked up at the sky and smiled.
‘I wonder what Susan has for lunch for us.’ She glanced assessingly at Jill. ‘I’m afraid Philip won’t be back – he’s got too much to do at the Gazette since our senior reporter died. Still, that will mean we can have a nice old gossip.’
Chapter Six
Mrs Margaret Meague coughed and brought up thick, green phlegm, which she spat into her crumpled handkerchief. She was fully dressed and wearing a coat and a hat; she had drawn the armchair up to the kitchen range and taken the further precaution of draping two blankets over her. Still she was cold. And she could not stop coughing, either, or gasping for breath; there was not enough air in the world.
It was always like this in winter. That was when the pains in her chest came back and the coughing and the wheezing started again.
She would have to talk to Charlie when he came home. Charlie would know what to do. Charlie was clever. It wasn’t his fault that he had been unlucky. He had problems, of course, but he’d sort them out. Thank God he was in work because now that the fat cow at Troy House had given her the push, she would need to take the money he wanted to give her. He was a good boy.
A good boy, a good boy, every good boy deserves favour: who said that? The teacher at school? The one who liked to hammer your knuckles with the ruler until she saw blood? Margaret Meague shivered and drew the blankets more tightly round her. Every good boy deserves favour. What had goodness to do with it?
Oh, God – she thought she was running a fever. Why was it so hard to breathe? It was only November. But things were already very bad. It was going to be a bad winter.
Chapter Seven
Holding Elizabeth by the hand, Edith Thornhill came slowly down the steps from the library. She noticed two well-dressed ladies getting into a dark blue Rover on the other side of the road. The younger woman was wearing a hat and a coat which must have come from London if not Paris. Edith barely noticed the stab of envy, automatically repressed.
She and Elizabeth had walked to the High Street from Victoria Road. On their way they’d called at the baker’s and the butcher’s and left orders at both shops. They had bought aspirin from the chemist’s and opened an account at the baker’s. Edith had spent nearly fifteen minutes hesitating over a rack of ties in Butter’s, the men’s outfitters. Christmas was beginning to loom, a menacing blank near the bottom of the kitchen calendar, and she hadn’t the faintest idea what to buy as a present for Richard. Not that they could really afford to buy each other more than token presents, despite the rise in income which his promotion to inspector had brought: the rent of the new house and the move from Cambridgeshire had cost far more than they had expected.
Now Edith was tired and Elizabeth was fretful. It was only half-a-mile home, but Edith thought they would catch a bus and blow the expense. Besides, if they caught the bus, she wouldn’t have to hurry past the window of Madame Ghislaine’s which was the one halfway decent dress shop in Lydmouth.
They joined the queue at the bus stop. Elizabeth whined and demanded to be picked up. It was simpler to let her have her way. Edith Thornhill stood there with the child’s arms wrapped tightly around her neck, watching the Rover pulling away from the Bull Hotel and purring down the High Street. No doubt the two ladies would soon be eating a proper lunch, cooked and served by someone else, who would also do the washing-up. No cheese on toast for them.
Elizabeth’s arms tightened even more.
‘Do let go, darling. I’ve got to breathe, you know.’
‘I want Daddy,’ Elizabeth muttered.
Chapter Eight
Thornhill and Kirby carried their glasses into the dining room of the Bathurst Arms. They had the room to themselves, apart from a couple of farmers arguing quietly over a newspaper in one corner and a man who looked like a solicitor’s clerk wolfing liver and bacon near the door.
He let Kirby choose where they sat – a table in the bow window. The Bathurst Arms was a small hotel at the bottom of Lyd Street and the window had a view of the river. Birds were flying low over the water, and beyond the river the wooded hills rose to the blue horizon.
They could have eaten in the canteen at headquarters, but Thornhill had preferred to go somewhere neutral, even though it was more expensive. Going back to headquarters meant running the risk of seeing Superintendent Williamson. Second, he wanted to hear how Kirby had got on with the Masterman case and there would be fewer interruptions here than there would be in the canteen. Third, it was time to try to find out what kind of a man Brian Kirby was and Thornhill was more likely to be successful if the attempt took place on territory where their difference in rank was not reinforced by their surroundings.
He took a second mouthful of beer. It was lighter than he was used to in the Fens and had a tang he wasn’t sure he liked. But they had come to the Bathurst Arms on Kirby’s suggestion, so some sort of compliment was called for.
‘Not bad. Nice balance.’
‘Rather better than the food,’ Kirby said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t have the Brown Windsor soup or the Spotted Dick. And I’d advise against the steak and kidney. By the way it tastes, you’d expect it to get up and neigh.’
A waitress took their order. She looked barely old enough to have left school. Kirby ordered bangers and mash, with apple pie to follow.
‘I’ll have that as well.’ Thornhill waited until they were alone. ‘How long have you been down here?’
‘Three and a half years. Quite long enough.’
‘Miss the bright lights?’
Kirby shrugged. ‘It’s not just that. Sometimes I feel they’re living in another century down here. They’re all related and they all know each other.’ His voice slipped without warning into the local accent. ‘He’s my aunt’s second cousin, look. My sister used to sit beside him at Sunday School.’ His voice reverted to normal. ‘Still, there are compensations.’
They talked about London for a few minutes. Kirby had been born in Camden Town, and he’d done his two-year probationary period at the Paddington Green station. Halfway through an anecdote about a station sergeant whom Thornhill could claim to know by reputation, Kirby stopped and rearranged his features into a smile that was the next best thing to a simper.
A woman had come in with a loaded tray and was making her way towards their table. It was not the waitress, but someone rather more striking. The farmers and the clerk were watching her as well.
Standing unnecessarily close to Kirby, the woman bent over the table and put down their plates, one by one. Her skirt was stretched tight over her buttocks, her artificial strawberry blonde hair dazzled and her perfume was pungently unsubtle. She leant across Kirby to straighten his fork. One of her breasts almost, but not quite, touched his arm. Thornhill wondered whether the woman might be one of the local compensations which Kirby had mentioned.
‘Got everything you want, Mr Kirby?’ she enquired.
‘No, Gloria. You know I haven’t.’
‘Now don’t be naughty.’ She grinned at him. ‘Whatever will your friend think?’
She tucked the tray under her arm and strolled out of the room. It was possible, Thornhill thought, that her rump was naturally designed to sway so vigorously both from side to side and up and down as she walked, but almost certainly nature had received every encouragement from art. He looked away, ashamed of his desire.
‘She expects a bit of chitchat, sir,’ Kirby said with a hint of apology in his voice. ‘She’s the landlady as well as the cook, by the way. She’s very good at keeping us informed. Professionally, as it were.’
Was he protesting too much? On the whole, Thornhill believed him. If t
here were anything improper in the relationship, Kirby would hardly have brought him here to witness it. Unless, of course, Kirby couldn’t bear to keep away, or unless he was the sort of man who enjoyed the risk of seeing how far he could go.
Thornhill nodded towards the door that Gloria had used. ‘I’m surprised the dining room isn’t busier.’
Kirby’s smile had a trace of smugness which wasn’t altogether appealing. ‘Oh, she doesn’t come out for everyone, sir. Just for the favoured few.’
‘I see. Is the girl her daughter?’
‘Young Jane? She’s a stepdaughter. Gloria used to be barmaid here, they say, but then she married the boss. Now she is the boss.’
Kirby forked half a sausage laden with potato into his mouth. For a while, they ate in silence. The potato was on the lumpy side and the sausages tasted of bread.
Thornhill drank some more beer. ‘How did you get on with Masterman?’
‘We got him into an ambulance. That was the main achievement of the morning. Besides that, not much is new. Whoever turned the place over wore gloves – but these days they all do. There were no other contact traces we could find.’
‘Inside knowledge?’
‘I tried that line, but I didn’t get anywhere. The Mastermans have been around for donkey’s years. Hundreds of people must have been in that sitting room, and probably dozens of them knew that Masterman kept his valuables in the window seat.’
‘When did he get his new safe?’
‘Eighteen months ago.’
‘Why?’
‘We had a rash of break-ins round then. That’s when his wife died, too. He collected on the life insurance.’
Thornhill pushed his plate aside. He stared out of the window at the wooded hills: there must be all sorts of animals up there – deer, badgers, foxes, you name it. In the spring they could take the children up there and let them loose.
A match rasped as Kirby lit a cigarette. Thornhill abandoned both the view and the future. It was time to get back to work.
‘What do you reckon then?’ he said. ‘Local talent?’
Kirby scratched his head. ‘I don’t know. Whoever did this at least had local information, plus some ability to plan. There again, he could have treated old Masterman a lot worse than he did. That eiderdown showed a bit of kindness, or at least a bit of forethought.’ He took a shred of tobacco from his lower lip, examined it and deposited it on the ashtray. ‘We’ve a few home-grown villains who could have done the job. But the eiderdown seems wrong.’ Kirby looked up, his eyes wary again. ‘I’m just thinking aloud, sir. Don’t take any notice.’
‘No, I’m interested. I want a list of the possibles. We’d better start checking them this afternoon, if only to rule them out. Tell me, did Charlie Meague’s mother ever work for Masterman?’
Kirby frowned. ‘I don’t know. I can find out if you want. But breaking and entering – that’s not Meague’s cup of tea, is it? And why Masterman’s?’
‘Why not?’
‘A tinpot jeweller in his own back yard? If all they say is true, Meague’s used to bigger things.’
‘People change. More to the point, perhaps, he might be desperate.’
‘But you don’t really think Charlie Meague’s behind it? And the King’s Head job, too? Mrs Halleran just wants us to nick him because she hates his mum. Mr Williamson said—’
‘I don’t think anything,’ Thornhill said, more emphatically than he’d intended. ‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind.’
Kirby’s face went blank – it was as though the emotions had been wiped away by a sponge. Thornhill was irritated with himself. He’d allowed his antagonism to Williamson to spill over to Kirby, which was both unfair and a tactical mistake.
‘Don’t misunderstand me. Ten to one Meague’s got nothing to do with it.’ Thornhill hesitated. ‘But according to Mr Williamson, Jimmy Carn might be heading our way.’
‘The bloke they call Genghis? What’s he got to do with Lydmouth?’ The wariness in Kirby’s face evaporated, and Thornhill mentally awarded him a good mark for the speed of his reaction. ‘I haven’t seen anything about it in the Police Gazette.’
‘I understand it’s nothing definite. But there’s a chance that Charlie Meague used to work for Carn.’
Kirby’s forehead wrinkled. ‘What’s the timing? Carn gets out of prison. At roughly the same time, Charlie Meague comes home to Mum. A few weeks later, there’s a rumour that Carn might be coming down to Lydmouth.’
‘Meanwhile, Charlie gets a labouring job at Templefields.’
‘He’s getting his hands dirty? That’s a surprise.’
‘He was one of the men who found those bones yesterday afternoon.’
Kirby leaned back in his chair and picked his teeth with a matchstick. ‘He could be trying to go straight. Anything’s possible.’
‘What do they say about him in the canteen?’
‘They think Charlie’s as bent as a corkscrew, and always will be. But so far he’s been clever enough not to get caught. Apart from his little youthful indiscretion.’
‘So what’s he doing down here?’
Kirby dropped the match in the ashtray, picked up his glass and swallowed the last of his beer. ‘Either he wanted to spend more time with dear old Mumsie or he was too scared to stay in the Smoke.’
‘Or both.’
‘How about this, sir? Meague owes Carn money, which he hasn’t got. Carn comes out of prison. Meague comes down here to lie low. Carn comes after him.’
‘Sheer speculation,’ Thornhill said. ‘But it’s very tempting. Then you’d have some sort of a motive for the break-ins, too.’ He nodded towards Kirby’s empty glass. ‘Want the other half?’
Thornhill took their glasses into the bar. A small crowd of men was waiting to be served. He found himself humming as he stood there, idly reading the list of darts fixtures pinned to the wall, and he recognised the tune as one he and Edith had danced to when they were courting. He felt more cheerful than he had for several days. The change of mood wasn’t due to the food and drink he had consumed, which lay heavily in his stomach, but to the conversation with Kirby. He didn’t yet know if he liked the man, let alone trusted him – it was too early to tell. But at least they could discuss a case like colleagues.
A man who had just been served pushed his way back to his seat. The crowd broke up and reformed. Thornhill smelled a familiar perfume.
‘Yes, dear?’ Gloria said, leaning the upper half of her body across the bar counter towards him. ‘What can I get you?’
His cheerfulness vanished. Suddenly his mouth was dry and he had to swallow. She made him feel like a sweaty little schoolboy desperate to relieve a need he hardly understood. He forced himself to look away from the straining blouse poised so invitingly near to him. Lust was a cuckoo among emotions: it tried to elbow all the others out of its way.
It wasn’t his turn to be served. He was about to point this out but, when he opened his mouth to do so, his nerve deserted him. The rational part of him pointed out that Gloria was giving him preferential treatment not because she liked him but because she knew or at least guessed that he was a police officer. He didn’t like her, he told himself firmly, and he didn’t want her to like him.
‘Same again?’ she said, smiling as though there were a shared secret between them.
‘Yes, please. Best bitter, I think it was.’
He put the glasses on the counter and pretended to be absorbed in finding his money. He was aware of her looking at him as she drew the first pint and aware too that he desperately wanted to look at her.
‘Enjoy your lunch?’
‘Yes, thanks.’
‘We do a special on Saturday. A lovely roast and two veg. Mr Kirby used to come in with his old boss sometimes.’
So Gloria knew who he was. Thornhill felt disappointed – and immediately angry with himself for the disappointment. She put the glasses on the bar and he held out a ten-shilling note.
‘I can put
it on the slate if you want.’
‘No, thanks.’ Thornhill took a deep breath. ‘I like to pay as I go.’
Chapter Nine
Seen in silhouette at dusk, the roofs, chimneys and gables of the Rose in Hand resembled an enormous crouching animal, a magnified insect. As he passed the inn on his way home after work, Charlie Meague averted his eyes. He turned right towards Minching Lane and put the Rose behind him.
His route took him through a cluster of small factories, garages and workshops; next there were terraces of tiny cottages built of red brick, several pubs and two chapels, one with boarded-up windows. Soon he came to an older part of the Templefields where there were fewer people.
Before the war, this network of cobbled lanes and stone-flagged courts had been teeming with life. But it had not been much of a life, Charlie reminded himself, because he automatically distrusted the way memory made a paradise out of the past. Here you’d seen children with rickets, with lice running through their hair. Most of the men had been out of work and they gambled for pennies on street corners, with one of their children acting as a lookout for the copper. The women were squat, muscular and almost always angry; they were more formidable than their men. On Friday and Saturday nights, there were fights – big ones involving dozens of men whose desperation was fuelled by alcohol, and the fights had often ended with blood on the cobbles and sometimes a body or two as well.
Among the poor there were gradations, just as there were among the rich. Charlie’s mother had taught him that the people who lived in Minching Lane could look down, metaphorically as well as literally, on those who lived, whole families to a single room, in these decaying courts. They were rough. They were dirty. They were vulgar. The mothers weren’t married to the fathers.
It was true that Charlie didn’t have a father. Mr Meague had gone to look for work in 1929, probably to Birmingham, and he’d never come back – much to his wife’s relief. Still, at least Charlie had known who his father was, and he’d had the reassuring knowledge during childhood that his parents had been married – and in chapel, too; he’d seen their marriage certificate which proved it. Moreover, although the Meagues had been poor, Mrs Meague was rarely short of work as a cleaner; in those days, she’d been a strong, vigorous woman who tackled the work given her if not with enthusiasm then at least with a grim determination.
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