Nettleton was cagey. ‘Where is it?’
‘I’ve got fifty here.’ Dick reached into his pocket and thrust some notes at the man. ‘The rest is at my mother’s house.’
‘There’s only forty-five here,’ said Nettleton.
‘What’s a fiver between old pals – there’s seven hundred waiting. Unlock me an’ it’s yours.’
‘The boy can go for it,’ decided Nettleton.
‘He doesn’t know where it is.’
‘You’ve just said it’s at your mother’s.’
‘Yes, but it’s in different cases. What if his mother asks what he’s doing and doesn’t let him come back?’ He had a terrible thought then – how long had he been unconscious? Hunting for his watch he was relieved to see he still had time to spare. ‘Listen, I’ve got twenty minutes before I have to leave for the London train. If I don’t get back soon they’ll come looking for me and then we’ll have witnesses to our deal.’
Nettleton looked at the boy. ‘We’ve got witnesses now.’
‘He won’t tell, will ye, Fred?’
Nettleton wasn’t to be duped. ‘He goes, you stay with me.’
Dickie sighed and told the boy exactly where to find the money, which was in separate packets. ‘For heaven’s sake, Fred, don’t let anybody catch ye.’
During the wait, he asked Nettleton, ‘How do I know I can trust you not to hand me over once ye’ve got the money?’
‘’Cause I’m a policeman.’ Nettleton sat patiently, never moving his eyes from Dick.
After ten minutes, the detective said, ‘He’s taking a long time. I hope you’ve not been silly.’
‘He’ll be here,’ said Dick, but his eyes showed the worry.
Fifteen minutes had gone. In spite of the room being unheated, Dickie began to sweat, imagining different casualties that might have befallen his son.
Nettleton decided that he had been taken for a fool. He stood and pulled the hood of his checked Ulster up over his bowler hat, then strode over to Dickie and unlocked the handcuff from the table leg, clicking it onto his own wrist.
‘Let me go and see where he is!’ pleaded his captive.
Nettleton gave a wrench on his arm and ordered him from the room. The snow whirled in at them as Nettleton opened the door and shoved Dickie out into the street. Both pulled their necks into the warmth of their coats and slitted their eyes. The much smaller man bullied his prisoner along the street. Flakes settled on their eyelashes, stinging, blinding them. Soon their garments resembled wedding cakes.
There was a cry. Freddie, who had been searching frantically for the right house, caught sight of them. Stumbling and falling, lifting his legs like a high-stepping horse out of the snow, he made his way towards them. Nettleton gestured for them to go back into the house, slamming the door on the blizzard. Back in the room they had just left, he told the boy to put the money on the table and spread it out for him to see. Fred was sobbing. ‘I couldn’t find you, Dad! All the houses look the same.’ His nose ran as copiously as his eyes. He wiped his sleeve across his face, plastering it with snow.
‘Never mind, son, don’t you fret. Just do as he says, we’ve got to go.’ Dick watched the shivering boy take the money from the inside of his coat and spread it on the table, petrified that Nettleton would want more.
The detective examined the money.
Dick felt like screaming for him to make up his mind. Then Nettleton inserted his key in the handcuff and Dickie was free.
He grabbed hold of Freddie and ran to the door. Nettleton let him go. Along the swirling streets he dashed, carrying Fred under his arm. Under his overcoat the sweat poured from his armpits. It was only a short dash home but with the snowdrifts clamping his ankles his thigh muscles throbbed.
‘Richard!’ yelped his wife when the pair of them almost fell into the drawing room, casting snow all over the carpet. ‘How long does it take to buy a pair of boots?’
Dickie could almost have laughed – he had left the boots with Nettleton.
‘That man …’ started Freddie, but his father clamped an expedient hand over his mouth.
‘No time for that, Fred! Sorry, Dust, we couldn’t find the right size. Come on – is the car ready, Son?’
‘It is now! I like the way you left us all to shovel a path down the drive. Come on before it’s snowed up again. I’ve checked the road, it’s been cleared, so we should get to the station on time.’
They took their leave of everyone save Erin and Sonny who would be coming to the station. Dick kissed Josie and all the girls, including a blushing Vinnie, then shared a fond handshake with his natural son and wished him every luck with the business. Coming to Belle, he locked desiring eyes for as long as he dared, gave her an uncle-like kiss, then amid tears and goodbyes, all hurried to the car.
It wouldn’t start. Dickie swore. His wife complained that he was the one who had held them up. If they missed the train she would skin him.
The engine began to roll. Everyone cheered. ‘The snow’s easing up,’ said Sonny. Everyone cheered again. Sonny steered the car out onto the road. It got halfway to the station before its wheels began to spin. The men jumped out to rake away the snow in front of it. Dickie was now running with sweat.
They reached the station without further mishap. The train was already in. Poor Thomasin was half carried along the platform and lifted up into the carriage. The guard was coming towards them, slamming doors. There was little time to say goodbye to Sonny and Erin, but for a few hugs and kisses and promises to write.
Brother and sister stepped back from the edge of the platform. The train blew off steam and jerked forward. Dickie and his family stood at the window waving to his brother and sister, waving, waving, until the train took the bend and they were lost to sight. Then he and Dusty turned to each other, heaved a sigh of relief – his far more pronounced – and sat down.
‘I hope my coconut’s safe in that trunk,’ worried Fred.
* * *
Nettleton finished packing the money into his overcoat and was about to leave when he noticed the brown paper parcel that Feeney had dropped. Running his hands over it, he guessed it held footwear, but just in case it might have something more valuable hidden inside he cut the string with a penknife and shook the wrapping free. His fingers searched the inside of the boots. Finding nothing, he checked the size, then discarded them.
On emerging from the house, he was pleased to see it was no longer snowing. The myriad flakes had formed themselves into beautiful patterns all along the street, swept high in mounds that sparkled like sugarloaves ’neath an old gaslamp. Nettleton hurried into town, his laboured breath dampening the wool of his scarf. Stamping his boots, he went into an office and approached the counter. ‘I’d like to send a telegram to London.’ As Feeney had bidden him, he had thought carefully about this. He just could not stand the thought of that villain getting away scot free. Should Feeney inform on the bribe, he had his story ready. Without the money they could prove nothing and Nettleton would make sure the money was safely hidden. He smiled at the thought of Feeney’s face when the police bushwhacked him at King’s Cross. It was a pity he could not make the arrest himself, but that would just have been greedy.
‘Sorry, sir, we’re completely ladysmithed tonight.’
Nettleton stared at the young man behind the counter. ‘What?’
‘We’ve no communications with the Capital, sir, the wires are snowed up. All telegrams from the North are being sent to those areas where the line to London is good.’
‘How long will it take?’ demanded Nettleton.
‘I regret to say it’ll take about four or five hours at the least, sir.’
Nettleton did a short sum, knowing the answer, but wanting to torture himself: it was four hours to midnight, the ship sailed just after. He could of course send a cable to America and have the police waiting when Feeney disembarked …
No, Feeney wasn’t worth the effort. With a little snort of amused resignation, he tu
rned on his heel and went out into the Arctic night.
* * *
Thomasin jumped as a hoot from the ship pierced the darkness. ‘Godfrey Norris! I’ll be dead before I ever get there at this rate.’
Dickie flicked a cigarette end at the water below. ‘Talking of which … ye know I’m never one to pry, but in that will ye made, did ye by chance leave me any shares in the company?’
His mother flexed her gloved fingers on the ship’s rail and looked up at the black sky. ‘I realise everybody thinks I’m daft, but I’m not that bloody daft.’
He sighed his disappointment. ‘Ah dear … there’s not much point me tipping you over the rail then?’
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’d be worth your while if you’re that way inclined: I just thought you’d prefer your portion in hard cash.’
‘Right, over she goes then!’ Dickie pretended to pick her up, then laughed and tried to coax her away from the rail to go somewhere warmer – the others were undercover – but she refused. ‘If it sinks I want to be near them lifeboats.’
Eventually, though, cold forced her to do as he asked. She linked his arm as they made their way slowly along the deck towards the light and sound of people enjoying themselves. ‘I feel very daring, you know. Eh, I don’t know what your dad would have to say to me gadding off and deserting the business!’
‘I do,’ said Dickie. ‘He’d say, “Jazers, Mary an’ Joseph, what the bloody hell’s our Dickie got you into this time?”’
‘Aye, you’re right.’ A tear to her eye, his mother laughed with him.
And both of them felt Patrick smile too.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1989 by Century Hutchinson
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by
Canelo Digital Publishing Limited
57 Shepherds Lane
Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU
United Kingdom
Copyright © Sheelagh Kelly, 1989
The moral right of Sheelagh Kelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781911591221
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dickie (Feeney Family Sagas Book 4) Page 51