‘I was in the merchant service, friend,’ Arnold went on. ‘Wireless. I was a wireless officer actually. I got torpedoed twice, and I was subsequently made medically unfit for service. The point I’m trying to make is, less careless talk, less convoys getting attacked.’
Steve winced. He had heard it all before. Arnold had masqueraded as a pilot, a commando, a naval officer, and now as a merchant marine officer. He knew that Arnold carried a dubious medical certificate which pronounced him unfit for military service, but he could see that the man who was now the object of his attention had not fallen for the patter. His eyes were calm and almost wicked-looking.
‘C’mon, Arnie. Let’s make a move,’ Steve said.
Arnold was enjoying himself. ‘There’s plenty of time, Steve. Our friend here knows the score. In fact I’m going to buy him a drink. What’s your pleasure, friend?’
Dennis waved his hand in reply but Arnold ignored him. ‘Bill, give our friend and his partner a drink.’
The crowd had become somewhat subdued and the two women, knowing Arnold Jerrold of old, decided to keep their own company at the far end of the bar.
The drinks had arrived and Arnold sidled over to stand beside Dennis. ‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ he said.
‘Yer wouldn’t ’ave done,’ Dennis replied. ‘I’ve never bin in’ere before.’
‘I don’t know why we bother to patronise the place. They seem a miserable lot,’ Arnold sneered.
‘P’raps they don’t like the noise you lot make,’ Dennis said, sipping his drink.
‘Do you think we make a lot of noise, friend?’
‘Put it this way, friend,’ Dennis said in little more than a whisper, ‘if this was my regular pub I’d be a little bit put out, ter say the least.’
Joe winced as he waited for the response, but when it came it was unexpected. Arnold suddenly burst into laughter. ‘I like you, friend,’ he said loudly.
‘Well I’m pleased,’ Dennis said, a slow grin breaking out on his pale face.
Arnold looked along the counter then leaned towards Dennis. ‘I’ll tell you something, friend. This might not be the greatest pub, but they do have some very pretty barmaids here. You see young Jennie there? Well my friend Steve here is taking her out. Then there was Connie.’
‘Connie?’
‘Yeah. She used to serve behind the bar. What a figure! She was hot stuff. We got on very well I might add. Seems she had a thing about sailors. In fact . . .’ Arnold whispered the rest of his words into Dennis’s ear.
Joe watched as the grin disappeared from his friend’s face. Dennis reached for his half-filled glass and slowly poured the ale down Arnold’s front. With measured accuracy he drew his fist back and threw a punch which landed hard in the middle of Arnold’s shocked face. The man fell back and collapsed in a heap, blood pouring from his busted nose.
Bill French vaulted the counter and spread himself between Dennis and the rest of the crowd. ‘C’mon, I don’t allow fisticuffs in my pub,’ he said, glaring from one side to the other.
Dennis looked over the landlord’s outstretched arms. ‘Any o’ you lot wanna make anyfing of it? You’re welcome ter try yer luck.’
Steve shook his head. ‘I don’t know what was said, pal, but I expect ’e asked fer it.’
Bill glared at Dennis. ‘Right mate, yer’ll ’ave ter leave. I can’t afford ter lose me licence.’
Joe grabbed his friend’s arm. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of ’ere.’
As they walked quickly along Salter Street Joe turned to Dennis. ‘I knew there’d be trouble. I jus’ knew it,’ he said. ‘What did ’e say ter make yer belt ’im, fer Chrissakes?’
‘It’s better yer don’t know, mate. Jus’ leave it at that, will yer?’
Chapter Forty-Six
It was a hot, dry July, and the smell of drains was permeating the back streets. The council water carts came out in force to wash the dry dust away and flush the stinking sewers, and the children found a new game to play. They sat in little groups and focused the hot sun’s rays through pieces of eyeglass on to scraps of newspaper and watched with pleasure as yesterday’s news smouldered into flame. It was too hot for rattling door knockers or for strenuous games like tin-can copper. Instead the kids sat in the shade and bet their treasured cigarette cards against the turn of a dog-eared playing card. When they grew tired of gambling they roamed amongst the rubble and built their Indian camps on the ruined houses and tenement blocks. The more daring balanced precariously on high rafters and atop swaying brick walls. One little girl in Ironmonger Street was very proud of her find which she pushed around in a doll’s pram, hidden beneath a piece of sacking: the nest of rats was quickly removed when discovered and the little girl was scrubbed vigorously with carbolic soap by her horrified mother. The council sent men to deal with the infested ruins and damaged sewers, and complaints poured into the council offices about the dangerous state of the bomb sites.
Another feature of wartime which troubled the authorities was the black market, which was flourishing in Bermondsey as much as elsewhere in London. People who were registered with a devious grocer or butcher could surreptitiously buy extra rations, but those whose tradesmen did not oblige had to obtain their extras by other means. There was always someone who could supply foodstuffs at outrageous prices, and occasionally the purveyor found himself in front of the magistrate, informed on by an angry customer. Daily newspapers reported on the growing scandal of the black market and articles graphically highlighted the terrible cost of bringing supplies in by sea.
For Connie, the summer days were idyllic. She had kept her appointment with Billy and she remembered their first night out together with pleasure. They had walked along the riverside and visited a quiet pub, talking easily as they sat on a cool veranda overlooking the Thames. They laughed and joked happily, relaxed in each other’s company, and the hours had seemed to fly past. When it was time to go home he had escorted her to the front door and said goodnight with a hesitant peck on her cheek.
They were meeting regularly now, and Connie felt as though a new spirit of life was coursing through her body. She was happy in Billy’s company. He made no demands on her, and he did not try to intrude on her secret thoughts. He seemed happy just to be with her, and Connie recalled with a smile how she had returned his hesitant kiss on their first date. The promise of her new relationship thrilled her, and suddenly the days ahead did not seem so dark and empty. She was captivated by the way he smiled and at times his dark eyes seemed to engulf her, but he never tried to prove himself. The way he treated her was strangely gracious for a man, and she was grateful for the space it allowed her. Time would pass, she knew, and when her wounds were properly healed she would be able to give herself completely. For the moment Connie felt content simply to enjoy each day as it came, and at last she had stopped worrying about the future.
Chief Inspector Coggins had, in his own words, ‘rung the changes at Dockhead nick’. During his short reign he had made quite a few unpopular decisions and upset more than a few of his officers with his methods. The duty rosters had been revised and the filing system reorganised to his satisfaction, and there had been a buzz of activity when a certain article appeared in one daily newspaper highlighting the amount of unsolved crimes in the London area. Inspector Coggins decided to respond to the politicians’ criticisms by showing them that at least his station was ‘on the ball’, as he put it.
When PC Wilshaw walked into Dockhead police station at midday on Saturday, ready to get on with his daily written report, he saw that a major tidying-up was under way. Papers were strewn about the desks and the station sergeant was in a foul mood.
‘You can see the problem, Wilshaw,’ he said with a red face. ‘The guv’nor wants the rubbish sorted out, so you’ll ’ave ter do yer report somewhere else.’
PC Wilshaw sat down to ease his aching feet and glanced idly at the pile of papers lying on the desk in front of him. One of the constables came in carryin
g another bundle and threw it down on a table.
‘There’s another lot for the bonfire, Sarge,’ he said, to the chagrin of Sergeant Carter.
Another constable scanned through the bundle and suddenly he laughed aloud. ‘Bloody hell, there’s some evil-looking characters here.’
Wanted posters were being passed around and comments were made which brought gales of laughter from the officers. ‘’Ere, get a load o’ this one,’ someone said. ‘William Smithers.
Last known address Barking. Wanted fer bigamy. Look at that dial. Who’d wanna marry that?’
‘Well two did,’ the sergeant growled.
PC Wilshaw was on his feet in a flash and he snatched the wanted poster from the constable’s hand.
‘Let’s ’ave a dekko at that,’ he said excitedly.
Two lines had been drawn through the poster and the word ‘Deceased’ was printed on it in red ink. As PC Wilshaw studied the photo his brow creased in a frown.
‘I knew that name rung a bell,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve bin puzzlin’ over that name an’ it was stuck up in ’ere all the time.’
‘We took it down when we got the update through,’ the sergeant butted in. ‘That was the instructions. We’re on a clean-up campaign, Wilshaw, didn’t yer know? Anyway, what yer gawkin’ at it for? The case is closed, and the geezer lived at Barkin’. Nufink ter do wiv us.’
‘What I’m sayin’ is, William Smithers lives in Ironmonger Street.’
The sergeant raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What, ’im?’
‘No, not ’im. William Smithers.’
‘Well I s’pose there’s more than one William Smithers. After all, it’s a common enough name.’
Consternation was showing on PC Wilshaw’s face. ‘Yeah, but the William Smithers in Ironmonger Street is only stayin’ there. ’E comes from Barkin’, accordin’ ter Toby Toomey.’
‘Who’s Toby Toomey, Wilshaw?’ the sergeant asked with a sigh.
‘The bloke ’e’s lodgin’ wiv.’
The station sergeant sat down heavily and cleared the papers from his desk with a sweep of his arm. ‘Right. Now what we gotta establish is, whether or not your Mr Smithers is a pucka Mr Smithers, or is ’e usin’ the deceased’s identity card.’
‘Right,’ grinned PC Wilshaw.
The station sergeant picked up the phone. ‘Joan? Get me Barkin’ nick, will yer?’
Chief Inspector Coggins stared up from his desk at the two men in front of him. ‘Barking said that the deceased was identified by his brother and the identity card was not recovered, that right?’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir. They gave us the ID number from the register.’
The inspector rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘There’s the possibility of a mistaken identification of the body. You sure your Mr Smithers is not the one in the photo, Wilshaw?’
‘Two different people, sir.’
‘Right, sergeant. I’ll get someone round to Ironmonger Street right away. You get back to the beat, Wilshaw, and stay in the vicinity. You might be needed.’
A bright sun shone down in the little backstreet as Dennis Foreman walked slowly along towards Joe Cooper’s house. The turning was busy as women came and went with their Saturday shopping and people stood chatting together on their front doorsteps. Children played in the gutter, and at the far end of the turning the knife grinder was bent over his spinning stone, working the treadle with his foot. Dennis knocked on number sixteen and Joe came out carrying his coat. ‘It’s a nice day fer a pint, Will,’ he grinned.
‘Where we goin’? Fancy the Compasses?’ Dennis asked.
‘If yer like. I’ve gotta stop off in John Street though. I wanna put a bet on.’
The two left the street just two minutes before PC Wilshaw arrived and, as he took up his position opposite Ironmonger Street, the beat bobby was feeling rather pleased with himself. His observations had been productive, and it would certainly stand him in good stead with the guv’ nor, he felt sure. The constable rocked back and forth, his eyes searching the length of the turning opposite. Everything looks in order, he thought. There’s old Mrs Adams nattering away as usual, and there’s that peculiar-looking bagwash woman standing by her front door, arms folded as always. Don’t get many strangers in that bloody turning. Even the locals give it a wide berth. Can’t say as I blame them. Hold tight, who’s that? Oh, it’s only the tallyman. Poor sod. Where’s the plain-clothes brigade got to? Taking their time, as usual. PC Wilshaw took out his silver pocket watch and studied it, squinting his eyes. Ten minutes past twelve. I hope they don’t leave it too long, he thought. I’m off at four.
At five minutes before one o’clock the two detectives walked into the turning, glancing briefly across to where the constable was standing. They rat-tatted on the Toomeys’ front door then looked up at the upstairs window. Inside the house there was panic.
Lillian came hurrying down the stairs, her eyes open wide and her mouth hanging open. ‘Quick! It’s the police!’ she said breathlessly.
‘The police! Oh my Gawd! They’re after ’im,’ Marie gasped, peeping through her clean net curtains.
Lillian stood transfixed in the parlour doorway. ‘What can we do?’ she said helplessly.
Marie stepped back from the window. ‘I dunno if they’re coppers or not,’ she said. ‘They’re in plain clothes.’
Lillian started to shuffle around in her anxiety. ‘They’re tecs all right. I see ’em come up ter the door from the bedroom winder. I reco’nise the big ugly one. ’E was the one who nicked me that time.’
‘What, the one who said yer was whorin’? I’ll ’ave somefink ter say ter that monkey’s uncle.’
There was a second rat-tat and Marie winced. ‘Go on then. Yer better let ’em in,’ she said to her daughter.
Lillian crept down the passage and gingerly opened the front door.
‘We’re police officers,’ the taller of the two detectives said. ‘We’d like to talk to a Mr William Smithers. We understand he rents a room here.’
Lillian put on her most innocent look. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Mr Smithers lives upstairs, but ’e’s not in. I fink ’e’s gone shoppin’.’
Marie had come into the passage and stood staring over Lillian’s shoulder. ‘What yer want ’im for?’ she asked sharply.
‘It’s just routine enquiries. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Can we come in? We’d like to look at Mr Smithers’s room.’
Marie bit on her lip. ‘I don’t know about that. Mr Smithers might be upset about people lookin’ in ’is private room.’
The ugly detective sighed. ‘We can get a search warrant, lady. Now can we take a look?’
‘Well, if yer must. It’s the first door top o’ the stairs,’ she said crossly, omitting to tell them about the low ceiling.
When the two detectives went up the stairs Marie put her finger to her lips. ‘Where’s Dennis gorn? We’ll ’ave ter try an’ warn ’im,’ she said in a whisper.
‘I dunno, Mum. ’E could be anywhere.’
Marie and her daughter sat listening to the creaking ceiling with serious expressions on their faces.
Marie put her hand to her cheek. ‘I only ’ope Toby don’t come in wiv the shoppin’ yet.’
They heard footsteps on the stairs and the two officers came into the parlour, the taller one rubbing his head. ‘Well everything seems in order,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if we waited for a while? Mr Smithers might be back shortly. It would save us another journey.’
Marie nodded. ‘Sit yerselves down. I’ll put the kettle on.’
The detective raised his hand and glanced quickly at his silent partner. ‘No thanks. We’ve just had ours.’
The other policeman could not remember having had a cup of tea recently but he guessed his senior must have a reason for refusing. He stared around the room and his eyes rested on Lillian Toomey’s crossed legs. She gave him a smile and licked her top lip suggestively. The silent detective coughed into his clos
ed hand and transferred his gaze to the ceiling. Occasionally his ugly partner glanced at his wristwatch and consulted the clock on the mantleshelf. Marie stayed out in the scullery, watching the kettle and trying desperately to think of some way to warn Dennis Foreman.
Saturday lunchtime was not the best time to drink in the Compasses, Dennis was beginning to realise. Women came in with their shopping bags and moaned about the food shortages, and market traders rushed in and elbowed their way to the counter, aware that for every minute they were away from their stalls customers were most likely being undercharged by the minders. The place was too small, Dennis decided, and he looked at Joe. His friend was listening to an elderly lady who had just in come from the market.
‘No bleedin’ oranges, no bleedin’ bananas, an’ no bleedin’ pomegranates,’ she was saying. ‘It looks bleedin’ bare on them stalls. I can’t remember when I last see a banana, or a bleedin’ pomegranate. The poxy apples look maggotty as well. I dunno, I’ll be glad when this bleedin’ war is over.’
‘What yer got fer the ole man’s tea, Jane?’ the woman next to her asked.
‘A scrag o’ mutton, an’ if ’e gives me any ole cheek about it, I’ll aim it at ’im.’
Dennis finished his pint and looked at Joe. His friend seemed eager to get away from the two women and when Dennis caught his eye he drained his glass and nodded with a wry smile.
The two walked slowly through the market, hands in their pockets and caps askew. ‘That beer tasted a bit watery, Joe,’ Dennis remarked. ‘It’s gettin’ ’arder than ever ter get a decent pint o’ beer.’
‘The Dolphin sells a good pint,’ Joe said, a grin breaking out on his face.
‘Yeah that’s true, but the company ain’t all that clever though, is it?’
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