Mickey closed the file. ‘Well, I suppose we can be thankful for small mercies, but there’s trouble brewing from that direction, you mark my words.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Henry agreed. ‘But the one thing you could say of Bailey is that you knew where you stood. I still don’t know how to figure Clem Atkins.’
Mickey paid a visit to Abraham Levy that evening, taking a detour on his homeward route. Mickey liked to walk; it soothed his mind and gave him some thinking time. He was in no hurry, anyway, to return to an empty house. His wife, Belle, was away on tour with the theatre company. He wished she would give up her travels and stay at home … but if she did that, then she would not be Belle.
He knocked on Abraham’s door – his home rather than the clockmaker’s shop next to it – and wondered if Abraham had replaced his lodgers yet. One had left because his family had need of him; the other had been murdered at the tail end of the previous year, which was how Mickey and Henry had become acquainted with the clockmaker. He was aware of the twitching curtains. A stranger and one who obviously did not belong was sure to attract attention, and Mickey was reminded also that he was in Clem Atkins’ territory. He wondered if he’d been wise to come to visit Abraham. Perhaps he should have simply sent a message. He was loath to bring more trouble to the man’s door. From what Mickey recalled, this side of the street was mostly Jewish, the opposite houses occupied by Irish and Poles. It was an odd quirk of these little streets that you could practically stick a pin in the map and be able to tell who might live there in terms of ethnicity and religion. There were Irish streets and Jewish streets – or half streets – and pockets of Armenians, Poles, Irish … When William Booth had carried out his famous survey of East End poverty, sending out his surveyors in the company of constables local to the area, he had been surprised by this pattern of identity. Mickey recalled, from his early days on the beat, a local officer telling him that there was no problem between communities as long as you didn’t try to mix direct neighbours. A Polish family living next to a Jewish family, living alongside the Irish was a recipe for a storm. But if they kept to their own street or their own side of the street, he had said, then everyone got along famously.
People were odd, Mickey thought. Very odd.
Abraham opened the door and his eyes lit up at the sight of Sergeant Hitchens. ‘You have news? Come along inside. You will take tea?’
‘Tea would be welcome,’ Mickey said as he stepped over the threshold and into the small front room. ‘But I’ve not much to tell you, I’m afraid. We called in all the information that could be had, and the boss and I went through it today. From what I can see, everyone did as thorough a job as they could.’
He watched as Abraham absorbed that and the light in his eyes faded. ‘I’m sure you’ve done what you can,’ he said. ‘You would like to sit in here?’
Mickey glanced around the front parlour. As with most such rooms, it was clean and neat and obviously rarely used, kept for high days and holidays and special guests. In this particular context, Mickey really didn’t want to be a special guest. ‘In my opinion, kitchens and back rooms are the place to be,’ he said.
Abraham smiled. ‘My feeling also,’ he said. ‘Come through and be at ease.’
They drank strong tea as Mickey talked through what little they had discovered in their review of Joseph’s disappearance. Much was already familiar to Abraham, but he became animated when Mickey told him about the suitcase left on the train and also that his nephew may well have broken his journey at Bardney.
‘That is progress!’ Abraham declared. ‘Information we did not have. We can go to Bardney – I don’t mean you, Sergeant Hitchens; I am aware that this is beyond your purview. But we – his family – we can begin there. And the suitcase? You know where that might be?’
Mickey shook his head. ‘We know it’s been handed in. It was reported to the guard on the train, so I expect it will have been taken to Peterborough. We will telephone in the morning and let you know if it’s fetched up there. It’s possible, of course, that it came all the way to King’s Cross and we will ask there first, although I don’t see that finding his suitcase will tell us much about the whereabouts of your nephew.’
Abraham shrugged. ‘It is something,’ he said. ‘It is more than we knew yesterday. We must be grateful for small mercies, Sergeant Hitchens.’
There was a photograph on the mantelpiece of a very young baby, cradled by a very pretty girl, and Abraham noticed Mickey’s gaze. ‘My wife and child,’ he said.
‘What happened to them?’ Their absence was almost a physical presence in the house.
‘Dead, just a few weeks after that picture was taken. Influenza, after the war.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mickey told him. ‘You never wanted to marry again?’
‘You mean, it’s unusual for a Jew of my age to be a bachelor,’ Abraham laughed. ‘And it is, I suppose. But I love my wife. I would have to love her less to love another more, and since I can’t do that, I don’t consider it fair to ask any woman to take her place. It would be wrong.’
Mickey nodded thoughtfully. ‘Makes sense,’ he said. ‘When you have loved that powerfully, anything else would be second best. I have a wife,’ he added, ‘who came to me later in my life than I suppose is usual, but I’m grateful to whatever powers I don’t believe in that she did.’
‘That you don’t believe in?’ Abraham was clearly amused.
‘It can be hard to believe in an almighty and omnipotent God when you do a job like mine,’ Mickey said. ‘Though for some of my colleagues, of course, the job sends them the other way, right into the arms of one church or another.’
‘Do you go to church?’
‘My wife likes to sing. I go when she’s home.’
‘When she’s home?’
Mickey shrugged but did not elaborate. ‘And you, do you go to synagogue?’
‘I go as often as I feel needful. More lately, I suppose. However much we turn our backs, it’s human for misery to want company, don’t you think?’
Mickey had to agree with that.
Abraham was silent for a moment or two and then he said, ‘You have to understand, it’s more than just fearing that he’s dead. It’s knowing that if he is, he’s also unburied, unmourned …’ He hesitated, as though not sure how his guest would judge his next words. ‘According to our beliefs, until his body is in the earth, properly buried according to our customs and our ways, then his soul is in turmoil. He is lost, in pain, apart from the community that nurtured him and that will always love him and to which he belongs.’
‘Do you believe that?’ Mickey asked gently. ‘As a man who goes to synagogue only as often as he feels necessary?’
‘It’s not about that.’ For the first time, Abraham sounded almost impatient. ‘It’s not about worship; in my head, it’s not even about the Almighty, as you call him – it’s about belonging. Sergeant Hitchens, however much we try to pull up our roots, our roots are always anchored. Cut them off and the remnants are still in the soil. We are always, in some measure, what we are born to, for good or ill, and in times of joy or sorrow it’s only natural that those roots pull us back. So yes, as things stand now, I do believe that. My brother and his wife have cried themselves dry. They need to know that their son is safe. Maybe not alive, but safe. Do you understand?’
Mickey nodded. ‘We’ll do what we can,’ he said, ‘but I won’t make promises I might not be able to keep; you must understand that.’
‘I do and I’m grateful.’
Mickey retrieved his hat and made ready to go. ‘If we track down the suitcase, can you come and look it over? Just in case there’s anything significant?’
‘Of course. I’ll do anything you need me to do.’
‘Do your brother and his wife and the rest of the family know you’ve come to us?’
Abraham smiled broadly. ‘Of course, and I’ve told them that, as good and honest men – even though you are goyim – you will not rest unt
il you have answers for them.’
FOUR
On the Friday of that same week, there was an incident in Clem Atkins’ territory. A youth, thought to be about eighteen or nineteen, had found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time and been badly beaten. It was said that he was from the Elephant and Castle mob and should not have been in Atkins’ territory. The local constables had reported back and Mickey, finding himself curious, took a wander down on his way home. The young man had been taken to hospital with slash wounds on his face and arms, concussion and broken ribs. None of the wounds were life-threatening, but Mickey was told that he would bear the scars for the rest of his life.
Mickey was worried that this was the start of something more. If the victim was a member of a gang, and in particular a member of the Elephants, then they would take revenge sooner or later. Mickey had seen such clashes before and had no wish for them to be repeated – and certainly no wish for them to be repeated a matter of a mile or so from where he himself lived.
There was a larger police presence than the streets normally attracted. Constables were still out doing door-to-door, although as Mickey watched, he was amused to find that nothing had changed. The constable knocked on the door. The door opened, words were exchanged, the door closed. The constable went away. It was a given that no one would have seen anything, know anything or say anything – not unless Clem Atkins wanted it to be seen, known or spoken about. The injured was not one of theirs, so why should they care?
Mickey paused to speak to the officers and get further details. In the street where the incident had taken place, the blood was still on the ground, soaking between the cobblestones.
‘Witnesses say he was being chased by some of the kids round here,’ the constable said. ‘But of course we’ve no names for the kids involved. They caught up with him just here, and two men came out from that alleyway – one with a stick from the looks of him, one with a razor. Not a bare blade; the wounds aren’t deep enough for that.’
Mickey nodded, understanding, and asked which hospital he had been taken to. He had no doubt that he or Henry would be talking to the boy at some point, for all the good it would do them. The boy would be as tight-lipped as the locals were.
Mickey rounded the next corner and headed towards the King’s Head, the pub that Clem Atkins had chosen as his headquarters. He had refurbished the building and now lived above the bar, a hostelry frequented by his own people rather than the general public. He seemed unsurprised to see Mickey and had a pint ready and waiting for him.
‘Sergeant Hitchens, make yourself at home.’
Mickey settled himself in a tub chair and took a long draught. ‘You keep a good pint here; I’ll say that much for you.’
‘You hear that, boys? The copper reckons we keep a good pint.’
‘So what happened here, then?’
‘A brawl, someone got hurt, you lot came, they took him off to hospital. End of story.’
‘As yet he seems to be a young man without a name.’
‘Well, he’s not from round here, so you can’t expect anyone who is from round here to know who he is,’ Clem said reasonably.
Mickey acknowledged that and took another drink.
‘I hear you’ve been paying our clockmaker a visit. About that nephew of his, was it?’
‘Mr Levy asked us to look into it. Of course, unless the boy turns up dead, there is little we can do, but we took it upon ourselves to review the evidence.’
‘Murder detectives wasting their time on a simple missing person. Or is it likely to become a missing corpse?’
Mickey shrugged his shoulders. ‘From all accounts, he is not a young man who would go missing willingly. His family is concerned.’
‘Young ’uns do things their families don’t expect,’ Atkins said with a wise nod. ‘Likely there’s a woman involved.’
‘Better that than a murder involved.’
Mickey glanced around the bar. The floor was scuffed but well swept and the wood on the bar top polished and gleaming, along with the brass. The walls were clean, and Mickey could smell fresh paint. It was a far cry from the underground boxing den where Josiah Bailey had held court. This place had windows – windows through which Clem Atkins could observe the crossroads of his world. It was an interesting change of tactics, Mickey thought, and interesting also that whereas Josiah Bailey’s headquarters had been on the periphery of his territory, this old pub was slap bang in the centre. The space was dotted with cast iron, marble-topped tables and bentwood chairs, with the addition of a few more comfortable tub chairs like the ones in which he and Atkins were seated. Groups of men sat around drinking, playing cards – and Mickey had no doubt they had been playing for money before he came in – studying the betting form or just engaging in idle chat. But there was an atmosphere in the room of barely contained aggression. Anyone mistaking this bar for a common or garden hostelry would only have to stick their heads through the door to have their minds changed.
‘Not that it’s my concern, of course,’ Atkins said in a tone that belied his words, ‘but you hear rumours about the Kikes, don’t you?’
Mickey ignored the epithet. ‘Rumours?’ he asked. He didn’t bother to hide his interest; Clem Atkins was not a man who appreciated the playing of such games.
Atkins set his glass down on the table and beckoned Mickey closer. ‘Family used to live round here,’ he said. ‘The brother’s family and that of the girl this Joseph was supposed to marry.’
‘Apparently so,’ Mickey told him.
‘Know why they left, do you?’
‘Get away from the likes of you, I should imagine.’
Clem Atkins laughed. ‘More than likely,’ he agreed. ‘Wanted that veneer of respectability, didn’t they? You know, that veneer folk reckon they get by leaving their past behind.’
Mickey sighed but knew he had to ask, ‘And what past was that, Clem?’
Atkins brushed imaginary dust from the sleeves of his jacket. ‘The girl’s family made out they’d not got two shillings to rub together, didn’t they? But then they go and buy that big old place up north, set up a bit of a boarding house – only for their own kind, mind you. And only for their own kind that happen to be travelling in from certain places.’ He raised an eyebrow at Mickey, inviting him to enquire further.
‘Well, go on, enlighten me,’ Mickey told him. ‘I can see you’re burning to.’
‘Me? I don’t burn for nothing, Sergeant Hitchens; I leave all that to lesser men. But I will tell you anyway.’ He leaned closer, whisky-soaked breath in Mickey’s nostrils. ‘Diamonds,’ he said. ‘Come in from Antwerp. Or so the rumour goes. Not that I give a lot of credence to rumours, you understand.’ He turned from Mickey and tapped the table, indicating that his glass needed a refill.
Mickey knew he had been dismissed, but he took his time moving. Leaning back against his chair, he said, ‘Rumour also has it that the lad beaten half to death today has connections to the Elephants. You might want to consider that.’ He paused. ‘Ah, but, of course, you don’t pay attention to rumours, do you?’
‘There’s rumours and there’s rumours,’ Clem told him. ‘I’m sure you know that to be true, Sergeant Hitchens. And speaking of rumours, I suppose you’ve heard what is said about Abraham Levy?’
Apparently, Mickey thought, he’d not been dismissed after all. He waited.
‘An agitator,’ Clem Atkins said. ‘A communist, so it’s said. Stands on his soapbox of a Sunday and exhorts the working classes to rise up against their masters. Tells them they should be the ones benefitting, not the sweatshop owners and the slum landlords.’
‘Not an uncommon message in these parts,’ Mickey observed.
‘Ain’t that the truth! I hear he almost got himself arrested, month or so back, standing on his box outside the labour exchange and delivering his commie message to the queue. And you know that ain’t legal – not outside the labour exchange. Your lot just moved him on – some young officer, new to the beat, w
ho didn’t fancy taking on the crowd, I imagine.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this clockmaker,’ Mickey observed. ‘Seem to spend a good deal of effort keeping him under observation.’
Clem Atkins drained his glass and tapped it on the counter again. Magically, it was refilled and Clem drained it again. ‘He causes me no worries,’ he said. ‘I just like to keep my finger on the pulse, if you get my meaning.’
Atkins stood and nodded to two men who’d been drinking at a side table. They too drained their glasses and came across to join their boss. ‘Well, it’s been good yarning with you, Sergeant, but I’m sure we’ve both got work to do, so I’ll wish you a good evening.’
Mickey watched him go and then wandered back out into the street, thinking how much had changed since Atkins had reopened this pub and taken over this little patch of a dozen or so streets from the previous incumbent. Josiah Bailey had not been in agreement with the change and had now been dead for almost three months, although on the face of things, Mickey reflected, not much had actually changed at all. The reopening of the King’s Head was the only surface difference. Even that had little impact on the local community; as far as Mickey could make out, it was reserved for Clem Atkins and his cronies. Bailey’s preferred headquarters, the boxing gym, was below ground, easily defended, invisible to most, and although Mickey knew that Clem Atkins still frequented the place, it seemed that the new boss preferred to be a degree or so more visible than his predecessor. That perhaps was the biggest shift; it spoke, Mickey thought, of Clem Atkins’ personality compared with Josiah Bailey’s. The impression he got was that Atkins was just feeling his way at the moment, not yet as tightly ensconced as he would like to be.
On reflection, Mickey had not been surprised by what Clem Atkins had said about Abraham Levy. There were a good many Jewish communists active in Whitechapel, Limehouse and even Golders Green, although the more orthodox community did not encourage such overt activity, and Abraham seemed to be a man who cared for the welfare of others. It might mean that he had a police record, though, Mickey thought; if so, he and Henry needed to be aware. It was likely that this business with the missing nephew had some quite different foundation, but if the uncle was an agitator, had the boy followed in his footsteps and been led into trouble because of that?
The Clockmaker Page 3