Her Missing Husband

by Diney Costeloe

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, her neighbour said the same.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘Not much really. She gave us a couple of names we should follow up – Randall’s father and a bloke who he works with, someone called Charlie. Drinks at the Red Lion.’

  ‘Have you found them?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. I’m going back to take a formal statement from Mrs Sharples this morning and then I’ll pay Mr Randall senior a visit. We’ve found his address; he lives in Leyton Street. Could give us a lead.’

  ‘Doubt if you’ll get any joy there,’ observed Marshall. ‘Even if Randall did go there, he’ll be long gone by now.’

  ‘I know,’ Stanton agreed with a sigh, ‘but we might get something to go on.’

  ‘Headed for London, d’you think?’

  Stanton shrugged. ‘It’s what I’d do. We had men watching the station yesterday, but there was no sign of him there. The problem is, though we have a description of him we haven’t a photo so they didn’t really know who they were looking for.’

  ‘And the London end?’

  ‘They had men watching the barrier,’ Stanton replied, ‘but, as far as we know, no one fitting his description arrived on either of the Belcaster trains.’

  ‘Hmm, well, keep at it,’ said his boss. ‘And don’t forget to ask Mrs Sharples for a photo. Her or Randall senior. One of them must have one.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Stanton got to his feet and was already at the door when Marshall said, ‘Have you talked to those on patrol that night? To see if anyone saw him? There’d have been no reason to stop him, but someone might have seen him somewhere. Who was on duty?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir, it’s being checked.’

  Stanton left the office and taking Constable Chapman with him, set out to visit Lily Sharples. He learned little more than he had the previous day, but this time it was put in a signed statement. Mrs Sharples produced a photo, showing the bride and groom, happy together on their wedding day.

  ‘May I take this? Stanton asked. ‘I’ll return it to you as soon as we’ve made copies.’

  ‘I don’t want it back,’ Lily said. ‘I never want to see him again.’

  Stanton sent Chapman back to the station with the statement, the photo and orders to check if any of the night shift had caught sight of Jimmy, or anyone who might possibly be Jimmy.

  ‘Check the incident book. See if anything looks likely. If so, get on to whoever filed it and find out more.’

  His own next stop was Leyton Road to speak to Mr Sidney Randall. He knocked on the door and waited. He was about to knock again when it was opened by an elderly man, still dressed in his pyjamas.

  ‘Mr Randall?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ demanded the old man.

  Stanton showed him his warrant card. ‘Just wanted to have a word with you,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘I’m not up yet,’ came the reply. ‘Come back later.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Randall, but I’m afraid what I have to discuss with you can’t wait. It relates to your son, Jimmy.’

  The old man raised rheumy eyes and said, ‘Jimmy? Jimmy ain’t here. He don’t live here. He’ll be at work.’

  ‘Where does he work?’

  ‘I dunno, on the sites somewhere. Different on different days. Probably catch him in the Red Lion this evening.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s most helpful, but I’m sorry, Mr Randall, I still need to talk to you and it’d be much better if we didn’t have our conversation on your doorstep.’

  With a sigh, Sidney Randall stood aside and let the sergeant into the house. There Stanton’s nose was assailed by a rank smell that permeated the house, a combination of damp, stale air, garbage and unwashed old man. Sidney led him into the kitchen, where the smell was even stronger, and sat down at the table. Stanton pulled out a chair and sat down opposite.

  ‘Well? What d’you want, then?’ Sidney stared at him belligerently.

  ‘It’s about your son, Jimmy. When did you see him last?’

  The old man shrugged. ‘Dunno, sometime last week.’

  ‘Last week?’

  ‘Yeah, he come round Tuesday it was... or Wednesday. Why?’

  ‘What did he come for?’

  ‘What d’you think? To borrow money, of course. It’s what he always comes for.’

  ‘And did you lend him any?’

  ‘Few bob. Not much, I ain’t got much, ’ave I?’ He gestured to his dismal surroundings. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘And that was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘Yeah, an’ he won’t come back till he’s broke again. What d’yer think, he comes out of love for his old man, do yer?’

  Stanton ignored the question and said, ‘Do you see much of your daughter-in-law?’

  Sidney looked surprised. ‘What, that Mavis? Nah, she don’t come round here.’

  ‘Not even with the baby?’ Looking round him at the dreadful state of the kitchen, Stanton wasn’t surprised, but he tried to sound so.

  ‘Not keen on babies,’ sniffed the old man. ‘Be all right when he’s a bit bigger, I s’pose. Perhaps she’ll bring him then.’

  There was nothing in Sidney Randall’s words or demeanour to show that he knew anything about Mavis’s fate, but even so Stanton was sure he did. It was his eyes. Watery though they were, they had an animal cunning and something lurked at the back of them, a wariness, a spark of triumph at putting one over on a cop, maybe? Sidney Randall was certainly not the sort of man to assist the police in any enquiry.

  ‘What d’yer want to know about her for?’ Randall asked, as if the thought had just struck him. ‘And Jimmy, you ain’t told me yet why yer asking about him.’

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you, Mr Randall, that your daughter-in-law, Mavis, is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ Sidney Randall did a creditable imitation of amazement. ‘What she die of, then?’

  Stanton wasn’t fooled but he simply replied, ‘I’m sorry to tell you that she was stabbed. Murdered in her own kitchen.’

  ‘Murdered!’ squawked Sidney. ‘An’ you think Jimmy had something to do with it!’

  ‘He seems to have disappeared, Mr Randall. No one’s seen him since he left the Red Lion the night before last.’

  ‘An’ that makes him a murderer, does it?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Stanton replied calmly, ‘but we do need to find him, to tell him what has happened to his wife and,’ he added as if as an afterthought, ‘who’s looking after his son.’

  ‘An’ who is?’ demanded Sidney.

  ‘I believe he’s with his grandmother, Mrs Sharples.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then.’ Apparently relieved that the baby wasn’t his responsibility, Sidney settled back into his chair.

  Stanton knew there was nothing further to be learned from Jimmy’s father and got to his feet. ‘So, if your son should get in touch with you, please will you come into the station, or give us a ring?’ he said, knowing that no such call would ever be made. ‘As you can imagine, it’s important for us to talk to him... so that we can rule him out of our investigation.’

  As he shut the door Sidney gave a satisfied grin. Rule him out of their investigation indeed! Them cops might think Jimmy’s done for her, but they’ll have a hell of a job finding him if he’s got to London and don’t want to be found!

  While Stanton was with Sidney Randall, Mavis’s friend and neighbour, Carrie Maunder, received a visit from Terry Knight, a reporter on the local newspaper, the Belcaster Chronicle. An experienced reporter, Terry soon established an easy rapport with Carrie and she happily told him all she knew about the Randalls. Hearing about the way Jimmy had treated Mavis and her children and how those children had been put in a local orphanage and then sent to Australia without Mavis’s knowledge, Terry knew that handled properly, this was a story that would run and run. Carrie gave him a picture of Mavis and Jimmy that her husband, John, had taken at the wedding and received
two five-pound notes for the photo and her time.

  As soon as he left the house Terry found a phone box and dialled the number of the Daily Drum in London. He’d always longed to move from a weekly provincial paper, like the Chronicle, to work in Fleet Street on a popular daily paper like the Drum. He spoke to the news editor and promised to file the murder story, and send it immediately with the picture of the victim and the probable murderer. Going back to the office, he wrote up his piece for the Chronicle, which complete with picture, would come out in the next issue of the paper, then he wrote a the same piece with a different slant, a more sensational angle, for the Drum. The editor had agreed a fee and had shown interest in the follow-up pieces Terry intended to write as the story unfolded.

  *

  When Stanton got back to the station he found Constable Chapman waiting for him.

  ‘Think we may have found something, Sarge,’ he said

  Stanton led the way into his tiny office and flopping down at his desk, said, ‘Right, then let’s have it.’

  ‘Well, Sarge, Sean Walsh was out on patrol Tuesday night when he saw a soldier with a kitbag out in the street. It was midnight and so he stopped to speak to the man. He suggested that he go to St Luke’s hostel in Parham Street. The soldier didn’t seem that keen, saying it would be closed and it was too late to wake them up. But Walsh put him in the car and took him there; handed him over to Sister Agnes.’

  Stanton nodded. Everyone knew Sister Agnes. ‘And did she take him in?’

  ‘She did. Walsh heard him give his name as John O’Connor, but of course that means nothing.’

  ‘But he was in uniform. Jimmy Randall wouldn’t have been in uniform.’

  ‘I been thinking about that,’ Chapman said, and then hesitated.

  ‘Well, go on.

  ‘Well, if he’d been in the army during the war, Randall might still have had his uniform. Perhaps he changed into it when he left his clothes in that bathroom.’

  ‘He might have,’ conceded Stanton, and thinking it through he added, ‘More likely he changed at his father’s. I’m sure he’d been there, though of course the old man was saying nothing... but there was something.’ He gave Chapman a grin. ‘Well done, Chapman. Now we’ve got a photo, we can show it to Walsh and to Sister Agnes and see if either of them think that this John O’Connor is Jimmy Randall.’

  ‘It’s Sean’s rest day today,’ Chapman said, ‘but I could take the snap round to him and see what he says.’

  ‘Do that,’ Stanton said, ‘but get several copies made first and I’ll take one to St Luke’s.’

  An hour later, he was led into Sister Agnes’s office.

  ‘I believe you had a soldier stay here on Tuesday night, brought to you by Constable Walsh.’

  ‘He did bring someone, yes.’ Sister Agnes sounded cautious.

  ‘I wonder if you’d take a look at this photo and tell me if you think this is the man.’ Stanton passed over the photo. Mavis had been cut out of the picture and it simply showed a smiling Jimmy in his demob suit, a carnation in its buttonhole.

  The nun put on her spectacles and studied it. ‘It could be,’ she said at last. ‘Why do you want him?’

  ‘His wife was found dead at their home on Wednesday morning. We’re trying to find him.’

  ‘You mean he killed her?’

  ‘We’re investigating her death. We need to speak to him.’ Stanton looked across at her. ‘Did he give you any idea why he was out on the street? Where he was going?’

  ‘We don’t cross-question the men who stay here, Sergeant,’ Sister Agnes said briskly. ‘We are entirely non-judgemental. We provide them with bed and breakfast, medical help if necessary, but most of them move on next morning and we don’t ask where.’

  ‘And this man moved on?’

  ‘He left before dawn.’

  ‘And you weren’t surprised?’

  ‘It happens,’ replied the nun. ‘Most of them stay for the free breakfast, but occasionally they slip away as soon as it’s light.’

  ‘So, I need to ask you again, is this the man who Constable Walsh brought to you around midnight on Tuesday?’

  ‘It looks very like him,’ Sister Agnes said, ‘but I couldn’t swear to it in a court. It was the middle of the night, the man was in a scruffy uniform, unshaven and hungry. If anything, I thought he might be a deserter.’

  ‘And you didn’t think that would be worth mentioning to the police?’

  Sister Agnes returned his gaze steadily. ‘Men desert for many reasons, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘It’s not for me to judge. The court will do that when they’re brought to trial. All we do here is meet their physical needs.’

  ‘This man probably murdered his wife.’

  ‘I’ve told you I think it could be him. I can tell you no more.’ She got to her feet to show that the interview was over. ‘I will pray for her soul.’

  ‘And pray that we catch him before he can harm anyone else,’ muttered Stanton as he left the room.

  When Constable Sean Walsh was shown the photo, he had no problem identifying Jimmy Randall as the soldier he’d taken to St Luke’s.

  ‘Definitely him, Sarge,’ he said.

  Stanton took the news to Inspector Marshall. ‘Seems to be travelling in uniform, sir.’

  ‘And no one saw him at Belcaster station.’

  ‘They weren’t looking for a serviceman, sir. But I’ll ask again, of course. Someone may remember seeing a soldier.’

  Marshall nodded. ‘If he wasn’t at the station he may have hitched a lift. We’ll put the word out, see if we can find anyone who picked up a soldier. He could be anywhere.’

  ‘I’d still put money on London,’ Stanton said.

  Marshall nodded. ‘So would I. They weren’t looking for a serviceman either, which could be why he wasn’t spotted at Euston. Leave that with me,’ he went on. ‘I’ll contact Scotland Yard and bring them up to date. It’s likely that he’s gone to ground in London.’

  *

  Jimmy enjoyed the stew grudgingly provided by Elsie’s mother. She’d shared it out between them and the portions were small, but it put food into him and Jimmy was pleased to have it. He was careful how he behaved, speaking politely to both the women. He wanted to stay overnight and when Edna asked him where he was going to stay in London, he said, ‘Not sure yet, Mrs Carter. Hoping to hook up with a mate of mine who lives down towards New Cross.’

  ‘But that’s miles away,’ cried Elsie. ‘The other side of London! You can’t go all that way tonight.’

  ‘Course he can,’ said her mother sharply. ‘It ain’t that late.’

  Jimmy smiled at Elsie. ‘Yeah, I can get there tonight... if he’s there, of course. I haven’t told him I’m coming, but I’m sure it’ll be all right.’

  ‘But supposing he ain’t in? Where will you go then?’ demanded Elsie.

  ‘Oh, I’ll find somewhere to doss down,’ Jimmy said cheerfully. ‘There’s plenty of park benches in London, ain’t there?’

  ‘Not on a night like tonight,’ Elsie insisted. ‘It’s freezing out there. You can sleep on our couch, can’t he, Mum? Just for tonight?’ She turned her eyes, hard and bright, to her mother, daring her to interfere.

  Elsie had not had a very satisfactory visit to RAF Belcaster. Ted hadn’t been as pleased to see her and Betsy as she’d hoped. They’d had a couple of afternoons together in the guest-house bedroom, while Betsy slept on an eiderdown in the corner, but Elsie’d soon realised that Ted’s heart wasn’t in it.

  ‘You been seeing someone else?’ she demanded.

  ‘No, course not,’ Ted had replied quickly... too quickly. And when she’d stared at him, his eyes had slid away from hers and she’d known he was lying.

  Well, she thought now as she eyed the strapping soldier she’d brought home from the train, two can play at that game! Despite the fact that she’d sort of flirted with him on the train, it hadn’t really occurred to her before, but now she thought about it, she felt a surge of lust and
this bloke, John, looked as if he might be up for it.

  Her mother clearly thought the same. She had no illusions about her daughter. Elsie was only married to Ted Tarrant because she’d put herself about and found herself in the family way. Ted thought Betsy was his, but Edna wasn’t so sure and she didn’t think Elsie knew for certain either. Still, they were married, Betsy had two parents, which was one more than Elsie’d had, and Edna didn’t want her daughter to rock the marital boat.

  ‘Don’t think Ted would like—’ began Edna, but was quelled by a glare from her daughter.

  ‘Ted’s not here,’ snapped Elsie, adding in a more conciliatory tone, ‘We can’t turn John out, Mum, not on a night like this, not with nowhere to go.’

  Jimmy had caught the gleam in her eye and he said, ‘Well, if the couch is on offer... just for tonight, like.’

  ‘You go on up, Mum,’ Elsie said, the decision clearly made. ‘I’ll find John some blankets and a pillow.’

  With a resigned sigh Edna nodded and turned for the door.

  I knew I should never have let the blighter in, she thought as she trudged upstairs and moved Betsy’s crib into her own bedroom. She knew that no one would be sleeping on the couch tonight, blankets and pillow provided or not. Still, he’d be gone in the morning and with luck Ted’d never hear anything about John, the man from the train.

  Elsie went to a blanket box on the tiny landing and came back downstairs with a pillow and a blanket.

  ‘Here you are, John,’ she said, dumping them onto the couch. ‘Blanket and pillow... that is, if you want to sleep on the couch.’ She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘Well,’ Jimmy replied, a grin stealing over his face as he felt himself begin to stiffen, ‘where else is there?’

  ‘We’ve got two bedrooms,’ Elsie said. ‘Mum’s in one and I don’t think she’d welcome company, but I suppose I could make room for another in my room,’ adding as she ran her tongue over her lips, ‘providing there’s no funny business of course. I’m a respectable married woman.’

  ‘Course you are,’ agreed Jimmy as he looked round the living room. ‘But it’d be a bit cold down here.’ He gave one brief thought to Mavis. If the silly bitch hadn’t said no to him that night when all he’d wanted was a good fuck, she’d be alive now. Well, she wasn’t and suddenly he felt in urgent need of a woman... any woman... and here was one, begging for it.