by Louise Hare
‘He’s already taken a bit of a beating from the looks of him,’ Ma continued. ‘If they’ve any sense they’ll throw him in a cell and leave him for a bit. No food or water. And then later tonight, or maybe they’ll let him stew until tomorrow, they’ll drag him out for questioning. But they’ll only be interested in a confession so they’ll threaten him and he’ll get a bit more of a beating, and maybe, eventually, he’ll give in and tell them what they want to hear.’
‘I’ll mash the potatoes, if you want. I think there’s a bit of marge left over, isn’t there? Remember when we used to make them with cream and butter?’ Evie went to the larder and brought out the dish but there was only a congealed sliver of bright yellow margarine left, embedded with toast crumbs. It turned her stomach and she put it back, wiping her hands on her skirt.
‘Are you listening to me, Evie?’
‘He didn’t do it, Ma. Why would he confess to something that he didn’t do?’ She grabbed the masher and unhooked the colander from the wall.
‘Will you leave those bloody potatoes Evie! Sit down and listen.’
She bit back a quick retort and sat back down at the table, her head turned away from her mother. ‘Lawrie’s innocent. He could never have done something like that. Like you said, they can’t have any evidence so I just don’t understand how they expect him to confess to anything.’
‘Because. It’s what they do. My father used to tell me all sorts of stories.’
‘Well, maybe that’s all they were.’ Evie drank her wine but it wasn’t working. Not with Ma going on and on. ‘You don’t know what they do these days. Like that detective said, you don’t know anyone in the police, not like you thought you did, and I don’t want to think about whatever horrible things they might be doing to Lawrie. I’ll wait for Derek to come home – he might actually be able to help. He’ll know someone. A solicitor or someone who knows what’s what.’
‘Derek Ryan? Don’t make me laugh! If you’re waiting for him to save Lawrie then you may as well resign yourself now to not seeing him again until they march him into court.’
‘I bet that would suit you, wouldn’t it?’ She couldn’t hold back any longer, trying not to scream. ‘You hate to see me happy. I know you do. You want me to be as lonely as you, stuck in this miserable house for ever.’
‘How bloody dare you!’ Ma moved surprisingly quickly, Evie too shocked to do more than shrink back against the wall as her mother converged upon her at speed. ‘I put a roof over your head, food on the table, saved you from ruining your own useless life.’ She banged her hand on the table in time with her words. ‘You’re an ungrateful bitch.’
Evie watched the bottle of wine, mesmerised by its progress as it hopped closer to the edge of the table each time her mother’s palm slapped the surface, eventually hurling itself to the floor in a blaze of red, her skin prickling as shards of glass struck her shins.
Ma stared down at the mess, a tear falling from her chin to mix with the spilled Burgundy on the floor. ‘Clean that up.’
She left the room.
9
He shivered, the thin blanket doing nothing to keep out the cold. It stank of the many men who’d come before him, shoved into this small, mean room and given all the time in the world to wonder where it had all gone wrong. Lawrie curled into a ball on the cell’s narrow cot, his head turned away from the bucket which he’d had to use to relieve himself.
They’d taken his watch from him and there was no clock hanging on the bare, yellow-stained walls. It was dark outside, he could see that much from the tiny high window, but the light had changed while he was being interviewed so he didn’t know how long since night had fallen. His head pounded and he pushed it into the thin pillow on the cot, the pressure stilling the beat momentarily.
He hadn’t been able to see Evie’s face as they dragged him out of the house, though that was perhaps a good thing. He would have lost all hope if he’d looked into her eyes and seen disappointment, or worse, accusation. Was she scared for him? For herself? Scared that he might know more than he was letting on. She’d never think him a murderer, he was sure, but he wouldn’t blame her for not quite trusting him.
Rathbone had conducted the interview, a constable sitting beside him and taking notes as his boss did all the talking. Everything was being done by the book. He wasn’t charged yet, that would come later, they said, as if it were only a matter of time before he confessed.
You said you didn’t leave the house until five, Rathbone had told him. But you were walking the streets in the early hours. Right when the body was being dumped.
I was coming home from work.
Rathbone had read back Lawrie’s original statement, word for word, and Lawrie realised what he’d done. He’d started at the wrong moment. A stupid, simple mistake. He’d heard the word ‘morning’ and in his fatigue assumed that Rathbone meant from breakfast time, not all the way from midnight when he’d been onstage playing ‘Light Up’ and enjoying the limelight, pretending he was Buster Bailey, exhilarated at the applause that accompanied his flawless performance.
Was all they had on him, just a tiny stupid mistake? He talked them through his journey home from Soho, every detail from the conversation with the bouncer on the door to his minor daily run-in with Donovan at the sorting office, to clocking off after his shift and deciding to take a cycle across the Common.
You can check, he told them. Ask the doorman what time it was that I left. Ask Mrs Ryan if the teapot was still warm when she got up. You’ll see there was no time for me to do anything else.
He remembered running for the bus and gave thanks that he’d made it. If he’d had to wait half an hour for the next then his alibi would have been shattered. If they bothered to check it. Rathbone had just smiled and nodded, as though nothing Lawrie had told him was a surprise.
Mrs Barnett remembered something, he said, unable to hide his sly smile. She saw you twice that day, ten minutes apart, she reckons. You cycled past her and she saw a parcel sticking out of the basket. That wasn’t there by the time you got here now, was it? Which begs the question: what were you carrying, and where did it go?
He hadn’t known what to tell them without dropping Derek in it as well as himself.
You think that poor child… He’d struggled to compose himself. I came from work, that’s the honest truth. I never seen that child before. I live with three other people – you don’t think one of them might notice if I bring a baby home one day?
Not if the baby lived with your fancy woman. Who is she? Can’t have been easy. You can’t hide a baby that looks like that, can you? It’s understandable. She was desperate. You were just helping her out.
Lawrie just shook his head and told them over and over that there was no fancy woman. The way Rathbone looked at him, he wondered what he knew. They’d been asking around. What had they been told? Not enough, it seemed, for after a couple of hours he watched as Rathbone checked his watch and made a decision. They’d sent him along to this cold cell so that they could go home to a warm fire and a hot meal.
He heard shouts echoing along the corridor. Swearing, the slurred tones of a drunk. It was Saturday night, he remembered, sitting up with a start that set off the pain in his head once more, like a child was bouncing a rubber ball against the inside of his skull. He was supposed to be playing with the band. Would Mrs Ryan have known to call Johnny? Did she even know his number? She had Lawrie’s mother’s address. Would she be writing to Lucille Herbert now, letting her know what a failure her surviving son had turned out to be? Mr Herbert’s son was a bank manager now. He would tell his new wife to forget about Lawrie, to think of the family that remained on Jamaican soil. Lawrie’s stomach folded in on itself, a one-second warning which gave him enough time to lean over the bucket before he threw up.
He lay there all night, barely sleeping for the noise, the smell of his own vomit and piss. He tried to distract himself with music, practicing scales in his head, then moving onto the songs he kn
ew Johnny would have put on the set list. Usually it worked better than counting sheep but in the past few days it was a method that failed more often than it worked, especially now, when he knew he should be playing those notes on stage at that very moment.
Daylight brought new hope and he began to pace as the light turned from black to grey, stretching out his aching muscles, three steps in either direction. It was something to do. He could hear people arriving for work, shouting greetings down the corridor, warning who was a spitter and who might be violent. They didn’t mention Lawrie and he had begun to worry that they’d forgotten about him when he heard the sound of a key in the lock. He sat down quickly, not wanting to look like trouble.
‘Breakfast.’ A uniformed policeman shoved a cup of water and a tin plate at him. ‘Toast’ll have to do you.’
‘You know when I’ll get out of here?’ He took the plate, suddenly starving even though he could see how dry the toast was, the margarine just sitting there in a thin anaemic slick on top.
‘Who says you will?’ The officer sneered, and with that the door slammed shut.
He swilled his mouth with water first, getting rid of the taste of bile and spitting into the hated bucket. He began to eat the toast, chewing each mouthful until it was mush, before swallowing. It passed the time. Someone down the hall began to scream, a high-pitched shriek that went up and down like a siren. Several boots ran past Lawrie’s door and he heard the bang of a heavy cell door crashing into the wall, more shouts before the screaming was cut off mid-breath.
Maybe this was all part of it. Part of the torture. Knowing that he couldn’t see what was happening, they were putting on some sort of act outside to terrify him into a confession. He stood, leaving the second round of toast untouched, beginning to pace once more. If he just knew what time it was… He gave up and lay down, finally falling asleep to be shaken awake what felt like a moment later.
‘Up. Get up.’ It was Rathbone glaring down at him. ‘Your solicitor’s here. Fancy that, eh?’
Lawrie blinked up at him. ‘My solicitor?’
‘You deaf?’ Rathbone looked as though he’d slept as badly as Lawrie, his dry skin almost translucent. ‘Come on then.’
His limbs had stiffened but Lawrie managed to shove himself to his feet and follow Rathbone back to the same old interview room. The detective didn’t follow him in, just slammed the door, closing Lawrie in with his visitor. Reluctantly Lawrie sat down, wondering how the hell this man had found him.
The man on the opposite side of the table wore an expensive suit, likely from Savile Row. ‘Mr Matthews? I hope you realise that I’ve got better things to do with my time than journey halfway across London on a Sunday morning.’ He could have narrated a Pathé newsreel.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Lawrie picked at a rough hangnail. ‘Only I’m not sure who you are or who called you.’
‘That would be Derek Ryan. He’s the one paying for my services, though this is the first time he’s involved me in a murder.’ The last word hung in the air.
Lawrie repeated. ‘I didn’t do it, you know, what they’re saying.’
The solicitor sighed, his body relaxing a little as he leaned forward, becoming more human. ‘Well, it doesn’t much matter to me whether you did or didn’t but that detective’s like a dog with a bone. However, I can’t see that they’ve got a good enough reason to hold you. They don’t have enough to charge you with anyway.’
Lawrie felt his eyes prick with tears. ‘You think so?’
‘You weren’t the first on the scene when the body was found. You’ve no connection to a baby, or any woman who has a child of the right age. No motive.’ The solicitor removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. ‘The only thing I can’t tell them is why you’re refusing to answer a very simple question.’
The parcel. ‘It’s nothing. I was doing a favour, that’s all.’ Lawrie lowered his voice. ‘For Derek, if you know what I mean.’
‘Ah, yes. Understandable then. It makes no odds at this point, the judge would laugh them out of the courtroom if they tried to make a case against you right now. Come on, let’s sort out whatever paperwork needs doing and I’ll drive you home on my way.’
Lawrie followed the solicitor out of the police station, stumbling slightly as he saw Rathbone waiting out on the street, leaning against his red car, the usual cigarette in his mouth. He said nothing, just stared at Lawrie with narrowed eyes. They had to walk past him, Lawrie’s hip scuffing the wall as he gave the detective a wide berth.
The solicitor handed Lawrie a card with a Chancery Lane address. ‘Murder isn’t exactly my specialty. If they try anything else, and I’m sure they will, this is a decent chap for you to call. He’s not cheap, so if you can’t afford him you need to ask the police to supply you with representation. They have a legal obligation to do that much.’
His car was a sensible grey four-door Vauxhall Ten, its interior as immaculately presented as its driver. Lawrie sank back into the seat and tried to enjoy being chauffeured home. He thanked the solicitor once more as they pulled up in front of the Ryans’, shaking his hand stiffly when it was offered.
He’d barely put both feet on the pavement when Evie shot out of her house, throwing her arms around him. He held on to her tightly and closed his eyes, his head resting on hers. He could feel her trembling as behind him the car drove off.
‘I thought…’ Her voice broke off as she gasped back a sob.
‘I’m all right, Evie, I’m all right.’ He pulled back slightly so that he could look in her eyes. ‘It was all a misunderstanding. I didn’t lie to them, you know. At least, I didn’t mean to. I forgot to tell them I’d been working in Soho is all.’ He wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, cradling her face in his palms. ‘You believe me, don’t you?’ He wouldn’t tell her about Derek’s deliveries unless he had to.
‘’Course I do,’ she assured him. ‘I was just worried that… Ma said that…’
‘Your mother doesn’t know everything.’
‘No,’ she agreed, her laugh bitter. ‘I’m finding that out.’
‘Cavorting in public? Evie, what would your mother say?’
He looked over Evie’s shoulder to see Aston standing in the Ryans’ doorway.
‘Ignore him,’ Lawrie whispered in her ear. To his friend: ‘I take it she threw you out? Whoever she was.’
Aston grinned, showing off his chipped front tooth, a souvenir from the plane crash that had killed Lawrie’s brother. ‘Actually, I took my young lady out for lunch yesterday and then to the pictures. Only got back this morning so I missed the show you put on for the neighbours.’
Lawrie felt his temper rise but he swallowed it back down; he didn’t want Evie to see him erupt. ‘You know, if I’d taken Evie to the pictures instead of wasting my time sitting indoors waiting for you then maybe I’d not have ended up in a police cell overnight.’
‘Did I ask you to sit in and wait for me?’ Aston countered. ‘I could have occupied meself plenty well enough ’til you got home.’
‘I should tell you to go to hell.’
‘Serious?’ Aston held his arms out, widespread in disbelief. ‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘No, you never did.’
He could feel Evie’s arms squeezing him, wanting him to leave Aston and pay her some attention.
‘Fine then. I’m sorry. And Evie, I’m sorry Lawrie made you miss going to the pictures.’
She murmured an acceptance that Lawrie knew she didn’t mean.
‘Just go back inside,’ he ordered. ‘Let me talk to Evie.’
Aston winked and disappeared back inside the house.
‘Evie? Come in for a bit?’
She shook her head. ‘I told Ma I’d make the dinner. She missed church with a bad head.’ She lowered her voice, checking over her shoulder to make sure Aston hadn’t crept up on them once more. ‘You ever think that the culprit might be close to home? The police haven’t questioned him, have they? They
probably don’t know that he exists since he swans up here when he feels like and vanishes as soon as he gets bored.’
Lawrie stared at her, then laughed. ‘My goodness, you really think Aston could do a thing like that? Besides, he’s careful. I never seen him with a girl round here. I swear he checks they don’t live anywhere round south London before he’ll buy them a drink.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ she insisted. ‘What if he forgot to be careful one time?’
‘No.’ He said it firmly, shaking his head. ‘Even if he slipped up, he wouldn’t do a thing like this, not even by accident. He’s got his faults but he admits to them. He’d hold his hands up and take his punishment.’
Evie nodded but didn’t look convinced. ‘You know him best.’ She kissed him. ‘You’ll come round later on?’
‘Promise.’ He kissed her back and gave her one last squeeze before letting her go.
The party had begun in the kitchen by the time he walked in, the entire household gathered. Aston and Derek were kindred spirits, both adept at chancing their luck, and they talked over one another, their laughter bellowing and contagious, only Lawrie immune. Arthur had Mrs Ryan’s pinny on, the top half-folded down so it looked more like a chef’s apron. With his spectacles perched on the end of his nose he looked part cook, part scientist, measuring out precise portions of rice. The chicken was laid out ready in a roasting tin, but the glossy rawness of the meat made Lawrie’s stomach turn. Rathbone had even managed to steal this from him; the simple enjoyment of a home-cooked meal.
‘Lawrie, love, sit down. I need to sort that eye of yours out.’ Mrs Ryan fetched down her first aid box. ‘This might sting a bit.’
Wasn’t that what Rose had said to him, all those months ago? So much had changed since then. He bit his tongue and tried to breathe as she tended the cut below his eye as gently as she could, his foot tapping out the rhythm of his wound as it throbbed with pain.
‘Well done, love. Now, it’s not going to look pretty for a few days but it’s not as bad as it could have been. And will you see what your pal’s brought us?’ She picked up a large bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. Aston always brought her favourite sherry, his method of payment for the roof over his head. ‘Get us the glasses down, will you, Derek? The good ones. We should have a toast to Lawrie’s safe return.’