‘Tell thee mam when she gets home, Billy,’ Mister Thackery said. ‘She should be told about him.’
Billy thanked his neighbour, and chatting amiably walked with him to the footpath that served both their houses. ‘As tha heard latest score?’ Mister Thackery asked.
‘At the Oval? No, I’ve been out all day,’ Billy told him. ‘Last I heard England had the Indians on the run.’
‘Not arf. Bedser and Young Freddie Trueman are skittling ‘em out,’ Mister Thackery said. ‘I reckon they’ll be four or five wickets apiece when they draw stumps.’
0o0o0
Chapter Twenty-Six
Doctor Hadfield was washing his car with all the care and concern of a mother for her child. Billy sat watching him from a low wall. He was eating a handful of the first of the summer’s blackberries, picked on a bit of waste ground, on the way over to the doctor’s house. He had just asked Hadfield about Longden’s movements on the day of Professor Darnley’s murder.
‘Sarah Becket said that she was with Longden in his office at the estimated time of Professor Darnley’s death. She’s sure he couldn’t have killed him’
‘But he was seen in the pub at Man’s Head. He drove them there. Darnley's jacket was pinched from his car there.’
‘I know, Billy, but don't forget, Longden left Darnley there – in the pub - and drove to the hospital. He was in his office by one-thirty. Sarah confirms it. What’s more, she insists there was nothing about his demeanour, his clothing, his shoes – nothing at all to suggest he had been in a tussle with Darnley, or done any lifting or digging. If he had killed Darnley, at the very least, he'd have looked a bit dishevelled. She’s adamant he couldn’t have done it.’
Billy frowned, inflating his cheeks in a sigh. ‘What time did he die?’
Hadfield scratched his head. ‘It’s very difficult to say, old lad. Obviously, we know he was alive at one o clock when he left the pub. According to the pub landlady, that was about ten minutes after Longden left. Unfortunately, whatever happened after that is a mystery.’
‘But about the - er – autopsy?’
‘Sarah didn’t get a proper look at the corpse. Longden stopped her. Anyway, the body had been out there too long for a quickie analysis - three days, as we now know for sure. The pathology report notes skin marbling and the early intrusion of blowflies. Unfortunately, that does little but confirm what we already know from witness testimony - three days. The actual time he was killed can’t be determined with much accuracy. Stomach contents, hypostasis, and hardening and such, are not all that helpful in this case.’
Billy gaped, bewildered. 'Hey, hold on – hypo wotsit – bla –bla-bla. Wharra yer talking about?'
'OK, in plain English, Sarah said he ate about six hours before death. If we assume his normal pattern of behaviour, he would have eaten breakfast at about eight. We know he didn't eat at the pub. According to Sarah, that would make time of death mid-afternoon, say about two or three o-clock. She can’t say more, because Longden prevented any further examination and he took her notes from her.'
*
The weekend was the last before the start of the autumn term. Heavy rain kept Billy to the house. His dad was off sick again, but this time the doctor at the steelworks where he worked had referred him for a thorough examination at the Royal Infirmary.
On Sunday morning, Billy sat on his dad’s bed reading the papers with him, mainly the Green 'un and sports' pages in the Empire. Apart from the start of the new football season, nothing much was happening. Sheffield Wednesday had drawn with Newcastle at Hillsborough, England beat the Indians in the Test match, the Korean war rumbled on, and Emil Zatopek still ruled the sports' world, weeks after his three gold medals at the Helsinki Olympics.
*
The following day, thoroughly fed up, Billy set out for school on the first day back. He sat miserably on the tram, reviewing his gloomy prospects; his dad was sick, it was raining, it was back to school, and the murderer was still free. His life was rubbish. He sighed and stared out at the rain. The tram was clattering past the university. He thought of his mam working there on the refectory hotplate. She had begged him to listen to the teachers this term, and not to mess about in class. He felt ashamed of himself, and sorry for her. He knew he was letting her down. He shrugged and resolved to try harder. He would try to make her proud of him. It might even help to take her mind off his dad. He knew she worried about him.
By the time he joined his classmates, he was feeling more positive and determined to work and study as hard as he could this term. He picked up his step and cheerfully shoved in to join his usual group in assembly. The teachers, moping about at the front, responded to his cheery nods with their usual hard stare.
Despite his good intentions, he spent that first day in a mist of bewilderment and enervation. His earlier enthusiasm and positivity wilted when he learned that an unfavourable report, passed down by his previous form teacher, had scuppered any chance that he might have had of a fresh start with his new one. Headmistress, Sister Pauline, thought by many to have trained under Goebbels, added to his woes. She singled him out for public castigation at morning assembly, citing various, long passed misdemeanours, and even mentioning something his dad had done as a boy thirty odd years before. Billy was not sure whether she was making the case that, - evil was in the blood, or that he should - beware the power of her record keeping. At day’s end, he slouched out through the school gates feeling anything but charged and eager for the challenges and excitement of education.
Having spent his tram fare on bubble gum, he set off to walk home. As he trudged the incongruously named Daisy Walk and Meadow Street, between the husks of blitzed houses, a motorbike roared up alongside him. The rider raised his goggles. It was Stan Daniels. He looked chillingly stony faced, and pointed to a bombed out row of houses. ‘I need a word, Billy,’ he said sternly, 'in there.’ He pushed his motorbike out of sight behind a bomb-damaged wall. Billy followed him, wondering what could be the matter. Stan parked the bike on its stand and stomped over the rubble into the ruins of one of the houses.
Billy looked around at the destruction. Half the roofs were missing. Patches of willow herb and dandelion thrust up hopefully from tangles of rubble. Shreds of wallpaper peeled from exposed plastered walls, and at shattered windows, rags of curtain material stirred in the air. Inside, he found bits of old furniture crushed beneath collapsed floors and walls.
‘Nice place you’ve got here, Stan.’
Stan turned on him suddenly. ‘Worra tha up to, Billy? I thought we were pals.’ He was glaring with fierce accusation, his lips trembling with anger.
Shocked, Billy felt himself pale. He struggled for words. ‘I – I don’t know what you mean, Stan. What’s happened?’
‘Tha knows,’ he snapped back at him. ‘Thaz been pestering Sally Snape. Don’t deny it. She’s told me her sen.’
Billy shrugged turning his palms out. ‘Sally Snape, yeah I went to see her, but I’m not pestering her. I just asked her a few questions about sommat.’
‘Huh, a few questions about sommat,’ Stan sneered, mimicking his tone.
Billy stiffened crossly. ‘What the hell’s wrong, Stan? Whaddayer being like this for?’
‘I don’t want Sally pestered. Leave her alone.’ He paced about the rubble-strewn floor, kicking at odd bits of plaster and timber. ‘I know thaz been trying to find out about that bloke who drowned. Well she’s got nowt to do wi’ it. Keep away from her. It were Darnley who did it. I thought you’d worked that out by now. Him and Hepburn had a row. He fell over and hit his head. Darnley drowned him. Tha knew that, surely.’
Billy did know it, but it was useful to hear Stan say so too. ‘I – I didn’t ask her about that. I asked her …’
‘I know what tha asked her,’ Stan yelled with undiminished fury. ‘And I don’t want her asked owt again. I’ve told thee now, Billy. Stay away from her. I won’t tell thee again.’ He stomped out of the shattered room and headed for his
motor cycle.
Billy rushed out after him. ‘Stan, who killed Mary? Is that what this’s about? Tell me who did it. Wait, Stan. Stan - don’t go.’
Stan Daniels straddled his motorbike and kicked it into life. ‘You don’t know what you’re messing with, Billy. That bastard Flood’s behind all this. He’s gonna pay too. I'll make sure of that. He covered it up. It was murder, Billy. I've worked it all out now. I know exactly what happened, and he's gonna pay. I'll make sure of that. He’s got to pay as well.’
The motorcycle engine roared, spinning the back wheel and throwing up a barrage of dust and brick rubble. It swerved away into the Meadow Street traffic. A passing lorry skidded to avoid it, its brakes screeching. Billy ran out onto the pavement and saw the bike snaking away at speed. In seconds, it was gone.
‘He’s got to pay – “as well” ?’ Billy said to himself, repeating what Stan had said. ‘What’s he mean, “as well”? As well as who?’ He rapidly reviewed everything Stan had said from the start of their brief and unpleasant meeting, and then went over their previous meetings. He was certain he had never mentioned the Marples’ bombing, or Mary Scott to Stan. They had only ever talked about the drowning. Stan had been very helpful. He knew a lot about it, but they had never discussed the other murders. And, why was he so interested in Sally Snape? Sally didn’t know anything. She hadn’t said anything. What was bothering him about her?
He started walking home, Stan’s troubling outburst playing over in his mind. He reviewed everything, analysing every phrase and nuance. It was then that a thought hit him like an explosion in his mind. Daniels! That was it. He stopped dead in his tracks, remembering suddenly that Sally had called Mary Scott, “Mary Daniels”. She had immediately corrected herself and Billy had all but forgotten it.
The strident blare of a truck’s horn blasted into his thoughts, shocking him back to reality. He looked around bewildered and found himself in the middle of the road. A truck was bearing down on him. He jumped out of its way and shrugged apologetically to the driver who glared back at him, mouthing angrily through his windscreen.
Daniels had been Mary’s maiden name, he told himself. Stan and Mary could be related, perhaps even brother and sister. He felt so foolish. It had never occurred to him, and Stan had not mentioned it. This was why Stan was so angry. His bitter references to Flood were now completely understandable. He recalled how Stan hated Flood. That had been obvious from that first day when he had hidden in the boiler room. “That slimy toad Flood” Stan had said. Now he understood why. Obviously, Stan blamed Flood for covering up Mary’s death, but was there more? Did he think Flood had killed her? After all, the same idea had crossed his mind.
A cold shiver ran down his spine. He felt sick. For a second he thought he might swoon, right there in the street. Stan had said that Flood had to pay, “as well”. As well as who? Who else did he mean? Who else had to pay, or had they paid already? Was it Darnley? Did he mean him?
‘Oh my God!’ cried Billy staring at a brick wall plastered with old posters. A woman with a toddler in a pushchair accelerated passed him as she heard him speak. No doubt she wondered what was so terrible about the circus poster he seemed to be gaping at.
‘The pint of Guinness in the corner!’ Billy cried, recalling how Polly Harrison had scorned the man for not bringing back his glass. ‘She had said he was on a motorbike.’
The mother prepared to take a defensive swing at Billy as he leapt over her toddler in its pram and sprinted for home. It was a steep, gruelling run of about a mile and took in Blake Street, a killingly steep hill. Even so, it passed in a blur. Luckily, his mam was not back from work yet, saving him the need for explanations. Without pausing, he grabbed his bike and pedalled off to find Doctor Hadfield.
He felt sick with worry about Stan. It was obvious he was going after Flood. He feared that in his present state of mind, deluded by grief and vengeful fury, Stan could easily do something he would regret forever. He pedalled harder, skidding round corners and dodging between the rush hour trams. He would soon be there. Hadfield would know what to do. He could help him to find Stan and calm him down. An image of Stan crashing into Flood's office and killing him at his desk, flashed through Billy's head as he pedalled in to the Doctor's quiet, leafy street of Victorian villas. They had to stop him. Hadfield could drive him to Police Headquarters. He could stop Stan bursting in there and doing anything stupid. It wasn't Flood he wanted to protect. He couldn’t care less about him. It was Stan. He had to stop him from becoming a murderer and facing hanging, especially for killing a scumbag like Flood.
Hadfield was not at home.
Billy pedalled down to the main surgery, half a mile away, hoping he might be there. Seeing that his Austin Seven was not parked in its usual spot, he did not bother to go in. Instead he pedalled round to the ironmongers on South Road, hoping to find PC Needham. Mister Nicholls, the owner, grabbed him before he could reach the storage shed. ‘Let go of me. I’ve got to find John,’ he panted. ‘It’s an emergency.’
Mister Nicholls eyed him suspiciously, but was quickly convinced by his demeanour. He released him. ‘He’s not in there. I haven’t seen him today.’
Billy looked about, feelings of panic rising in his chest. ‘Can I use your phone? I have to ring the cops. It’s an emergency.’
‘I don’t have a phone,’ said Mister Nicholls, as if admitting the errors of a misspent life. ‘They’ve got one at the post office. Here, lad, come wi’ me. I’ll tell ‘em you need it.’
The postmistress listened to the ironmonger's tale, occasionally peering at Billy with obvious distaste. ‘I’m just closing up,’ she said. ‘It’s gone half past five.’
Billy stared at her unmoved. Finally, she sighed and began looking up the number for Police Headquarters. Billy thanked her profusely for her kind help, not suspecting for a second that she was simply making sure he did not ring some auntie in Australia. She dialled and handed him the phone. Eventually he was put through to Flood’s snooty assistant. She told him the chief superintendent had gone home for the day. The postmistress and the ironmonger hissed in chorus that he should ask her to take a message. He did, but the woman refused. She also declined to give him Flood’s home telephone number.
Billy looked at the two worried adults. The postmistress, now fully engaged, whipped through the telephone directory shaking her head with worry. ‘I can’t see his number in here. He must be ex-directory.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he told them. ‘I know where he lives.’ He ran out of the post office, mounted his bike and pedalled off, first to Yvonne’s house. She joined him without question. Her mother stroked her owl, mumbling something about how nice it was for two children to be so thoughtful. The pair pedalled off to pick up Kick Morley on the way to what Billy called "Flood’s massive-mansion-palace"
The three of them tackled the gruelling climb up to Ranmoor, as Billy breathlessly updated them. It was about six-thirty when they arrived at the walls of Flood’s leafy garden. The evening summer sun gilded the gently swaying heads of the trees. There was no sign of Stan Daniels or his motorbike. Apart from a large black car, parked a few houses away, the street was empty. They did not go straight up to the house. Billy suggested they should try to find Stan first, and convince him not to do anything stupid. If they did find him and could turn him around, the whole thing might be forgotten, though in his heart Billy doubted it. They split up and searched the street, peering in shrubberies and behind garden walls hoping to find Stan's motorbike.
After a while, they had to give up. They hid their bikes in bushes. Billy suggested they should watch the house and try to catch Stan as he arrived. Keeping well out of sight of the windows in Flood’s house, the trio crept up the drive. At the large sweeping lawn, they crouched in a thick shrubbery. They could get no closer without the risk of being spotted crossing the lawn. ‘You two stay here,' said Billy. 'I’ll go and see if Stan's here already. He might be round the back. If I don’t find him …' He stopped and hu
ng his head. 'Well, I don't know what we'll do then. I expect we'll have no choice. We'll have to go and ring the doorbell.' He turned and eyed the house, readying himself for the dash across the open lawn.
His heart felt as if it would leap out of his mouth as he dashed across the open ground, but he was determined to help his friend. He knew that grief and anger had shaken Stan's powers of reason, knocking him seriously off balance, so that all he wanted was vengeance. But that would bring about his own destruction. Somehow, Billy had to stop him.
He commando rolled into the shadow of the house and pressed back against its wall, panting for breath. He got a rapturous thumbs-up from Kick, who disappeared quickly, presumably dragged back unceremoniously into cover by Yvonne.
Sideling along against the wall, his shoulder blades in contact with it, he came to a door and window. He guessed it was probably the back kitchen. A couple of buckets and a yard broom stood beside the door. He reached for the door handle, listening all the while for any sound. It was unlocked. He opened it silently, and slipped inside. It was a kitchen, large, empty and dimly lit. Crouching by a scrubbed pine table, he froze, listening for any sounds. He heard adult male voices, distant and muffled. He couldn't tell what was being said, but sometimes they were soft and low and then would swell up louder and more passionate, as if in argument. He listened at each of the two internal doors before gingerly trying the second one. It opened into a large dining room, furnished with antique furniture. The room was unoccupied, the curtains drawn. At its far end, light showed around the edge of a door into an adjoining room. He crept across to it and peered through the crack.
‘Aren’t you joining us?’ It was Sergeant Lackey. He had whipped the door open just as Billy leaned to put his ear to it. ‘You’ll hear much better inside.’ Billy stumbled into a brightly lit sitting room. A crystal chandelier and bright matching wall lights sparkled around the room. Heavy curtains covered two large windows, though outside the evening sun still shone.
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