by Pam Weaver
He picked up the pencil and began tapping the desk. Amy waited. She guessed what he was thinking. He was torn; he should investigate it himself, but didn’t want to. It was obvious that he didn’t want to involve Perkins and Cooper, either, and he’d backed himself into a corner by being so dismissive when she’d volunteered to go.
‘We seem to be getting a spate of petty thefts, don’t we, Sarge?’ she said, going to the filing cabinet. He stopped tapping and looked up at her. ‘The coal from Hilda Marsden; the theft from the allotments – tools and stuff; and that wooden wheelchair has to have come from somewhere.’
‘Wheelchair?’ he choked. ‘What wheelchair. I didn’t know about that.’
‘I found it a couple of days ago,’ said Amy. ‘I did put it in my report.’
Sergeant Goble gave her a sceptical look.
‘I seem to remember you gave the wheelchair to PC Waller to put downstairs,’ said Amy cautiously.
‘Ah yes,’ said Sergeant Goble, although it was obvious he’d forgotten all about it. He resumed his tapping. ‘Not worth much, though, is it?’
‘You’d always get a few bob on the black market, sir.’
For some reason the sergeant seemed to have a light-bulb moment. ‘Get on yer bike, ’Obbs. Go and have a talk with the vicar.’
‘Is that the St Andrew’s in Victoria Road?’
‘No, of course not! St Andrew’s in Ferring,’ he snapped. ‘Where else would it be?’
Freda closed her eyes and wrung her hands. ‘Wally’s been out all night,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t know where he is. I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘If he’s with Eddie . . .’ Martha began.
‘Eddie is at home,’ said Freda. ‘He came in late last night and went straight to bed. He’s still sleeping. That’s why I’m here.’
Martha placed her hand on Freda’s. Her fingers were like ice. ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Wally is a big lad. He can look after himself.’
Freda looked up helplessly. They were in the little kitchen at the back of the Red Cross shop where Martha worked. One look at Freda, and Martha knew she had to stop and help. Her pinched face was grey, apart from the old bruise on her cheek. That ranged from blue to green. She seemed thinner than ever. Her clothes hung on her.
‘When did you last eat?’ said Martha.
Freda shrugged. The other girls had taken over, leaving Martha free to chat. As they sat in the small back kitchen, it hadn’t taken her neighbour long to explain what Eddie had planned for the boy the night before.
‘He practically told me he was taking Wally to a prostitute,’ Freda said brokenly.
‘Look, love,’ Martha said quietly. ‘I know some of those girls. They seem as hard as nails, but a lot of them have kids of their own. They only do it to make ends meet. They won’t force Wally to do anything he doesn’t want to.’
‘But Eddie wouldn’t pay them unless they did,’ Freda replied. ‘He’d go potty.’
‘Then they’ll lie to him,’ said Martha, opening her own lunch box. They’d been rushed off their feet at lunchtime today. What a good job she hadn’t had time to eat much. ‘When Eddie asks him, Wally will boast, and the girl will back him up.’
Freda sniffed. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, dabbing her eyes with a grubby handkerchief. ‘But what if he gets tempted?’
‘There’s not a lot you can do about that, is there?’ said Martha.
Freda sighed. ‘It’s not just the women,’ she continued. ‘It’s the booze as well. I don’t want Wally to get a taste for it, like his father.’
‘Here, get your chops around this.’ Martha pushed a cheese sandwich in front of her friend and Freda’s stomach growled. Martha made some tea while Freda tucked into the sandwich. Was Wally really as innocent as his mother believed him to be? What red-blooded young man would be able to resist a woman of the world offering herself to him? She could understand Freda’s anxiety, but there was little she could do to stop him. She put the teacup in front of her friend and sat down opposite. ‘Why don’t I ask Amy to look out for Wally?’
‘No!’ cried Freda. ‘I can’t shop him to the police.’
‘Nobody’s asking you to shop him,’ Martha said gently, ‘and Amy is very discreet.’ She saw Freda hesitate, so she ploughed on. ‘Wally has a great talent, when it comes to drawing. I’m sure Amy would do all she could to encourage him. It could be his way out of Worthing and into a better life, Freda. Come on, love, what do you say? You can’t fight this battle on your own.’
The vicar, Rev. Copley Moyle, seemed slightly bemused to see Amy. ‘A policewoman,’ he said in awed tones. ‘Oh my, oh my. I had no idea.’
‘There’s quite a few of us now, sir,’ said Amy. ‘Probably as many as three hundred. The numbers have grown steadily since the war.’
‘Remarkable,’ he breathed. ‘Quite remarkable.’
She asked him a few questions about the theft, but he seemed rather vague. ‘You should talk to the churchwarden,’ he said. ‘He knows more about these things than I do.’
Colonel Tidy was having a spot of lunch in the Henty Arms, a large but homely public house next to the railway. ‘The silver candlesticks were circa sixteenth century,’ the colonel said bleakly. ‘They survived Henry VIII’s vandalism and the English Civil War, when the village was seized by Parliament. I hate to think of them being melted down, after all this time.’
‘Would they really do that?’ asked Amy.
‘That’s the only way they could make a profit,’ said the colonel. ‘They may be solid silver, but they’re hardly the sort of thing anyone would want on their mantelpiece. No, they’ll sell them for the scrap value.’
‘When did you notice they were missing?’ Amy asked.
‘Friday.’ The colonel sighed. ‘Mrs Clifton always cleans the brass and silver on a Friday. She couldn’t find them, so she came to me to ask where they were.’
‘You say she cleaned both the brass and silver,’ Amy mused, ‘but the thief only took one thing.’
‘That’s the really odd thing,’ said the colonel. ‘They left the Victorian communion plate and the silver cup. That’s worth a hell of a lot more.’ He suddenly looked embarrassed. ‘Excuse my French.’
Amy waved her hand dismissively. ‘So our thief isn’t very discerning.’
The colonel shook his head.
‘How did he break in?’
‘He didn’t,’ said the colonel. ‘Ever since the war, we’ve left the church open all the time. People can come in and pray whenever they feel the need. He just walked in.’
‘Excuse me, Miss,’ the landlady interrupted. ‘Are you the policewoman who pulled poor Vera Bottomley out of the river?’
‘Well, I didn’t actually pull her out,’ Amy admitted, ‘but I was called to the scene.’
‘In that case, when you’ve finished talking to the colonel,’ she went on, ‘I wonder if I could have a word?’
In fact Colonel Tidy had little more to add, so it wasn’t long before Amy joined the landlady in the Ladies’ Snug, a small room reserved for respectable women on their own.
‘In view of the fact that Vera’s only relative is accused of her murder, I’m not sure what to do.’
‘Lettuce is assisting the police with their enquiries,’ Amy corrected. ‘She hasn’t been accused of anything.’
Fishing into her apron pocket, the landlady drew out a beautiful diamanté watch and laid it on the table. Amy gasped in surprise. So she had been right after all. Vera had worn a watch, and Amy was willing to bet that the faded diamond pattern on her left wrist was exactly the same shape as the watch now in front of her.
The landlady went on to explain that the last time Vera had been in the Henty Arms, she had complained that she could no longer wind the watch up. ‘The little knob had come off, you see,’ she continued. ‘I offered to take it into a jeweller’s the next time I went to Worthing on the bus. The jeweller said the knob was so small he’d have to send away for another
one. Well, Vera told me she’d pay, no matter what, so I told the jeweller to go ahead.’
‘Why didn’t you come forward with this information before?’ asked Amy.
‘I didn’t think it was that important,’ said the landlady. ‘It was an arrangement between friends, that’s all.’
‘Why give it to me now?’ asked Amy.
‘Because the jeweller asked me if I wanted him to keep it in his safe,’ said the landlady. ‘It was only then that I realized its value.’
‘So how much is it worth?’ asked Amy, turning it over in her hands.
‘Five hundred pounds,’ said the landlady.
Amy gasped and nearly dropped it. ‘Five hundred pounds! That’s an absolute fortune.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said the landlady. ‘When Vera gave it to me, I chucked it into one of the ashtrays at the back of the bar until I went into town. It stayed there all that time, and nobody realized how much it was worth.’
‘What about the repair?’ asked Amy. ‘Were you able to pay for it?’
The landlady hesitated. ‘I did,’ she began, ‘because I expected the money to come out of Vera’s winnings.’
Amy frowned. ‘Pardon?’
The landlady took a deep breath. ‘Vera loved to gamble, but she didn’t want her granddaughter or the people in the home to know. That’s why she sneaked out at night and—’
‘Just a minute,’ said Amy, putting up her hand. ‘Mrs Bottomley couldn’t walk. She was in a wheelchair.’
The landlady suppressed a grin. ‘That’s what she liked people to think,’ she said, ‘but believe me, Vera could walk perfectly well.’
Amy’s mouth gaped. ‘But the wheelchair . . .’
‘She would lean over the back of it, just to steady herself,’ said the landlady. ‘As soon as the lights went out in the home, she’d come down to the pub. She played anything: cribbage, backgammon, shove-ha’penny, you name it – if there was a penny to win, Vera was in.’
For once, Amy was speechless.
‘When the pub shut, she either got one of the boys to push her home – especially if she’d had one too many – or she’d walk back herself.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ said Amy. ‘How did she get back inside the home without being seen?’
‘Her room had a French door,’ said the landlady. ‘Nobody checked up on the old dears once they were in bed; not for hours anyway.’ She chuckled. ‘I remember one time Vera said she’d nearly been caught. She’d only just got in when she heard someone coming, so she jumped into bed with all her clothes on. The boys had a good laugh when she told them, and they bought her a few gins on the strength of that story.’
Amy smiled. What an amazing woman. She wished she could have known Vera before she died. She was sure she would have liked her enormously.
‘About the day she died . . .’ Amy began again.
‘She’d had a big win on a sweepstake that the Canadians were running,’ said the landlady. ‘Twenty pounds.’
‘How did she find out?’
‘One of the Canadians told her,’ said the landlady. ‘He’s one of my regulars. They usually come in a crowd, but he was on his own that night.’
‘She didn’t have that kind of money on her when she was found,’ Amy remarked.
‘She was supposed to collect it in person from the Blue Bird Cafe,’ said the landlady.
‘Then she must have been on her way there when she fell in the Rife,’ Amy mused.
‘Vera ran up a bar bill for drinks all round, after she found out, and I paid for the watch repair on the strength of it as well, so I’m the one out of pocket.’
‘That must have been some bar bill,’ Amy remarked.
‘It was some night,’ the landlady chuckled. ‘That’s why Vera was popular. She shared her good fortune and everybody loved her for it. Thinking back, she must have been a bit drunk when she left. I saw her putting her coat on, but she left the chair outside in the car park.’
‘Her wheelchair?’ said Amy.
The landlady jerked her head towards the corner of the fireplace, and Amy saw a wooden wheelchair with green paint on the armrest.
‘Have you cleaned it up by any chance?’ Amy asked.
The landlady shook her head. ‘That’s the way I found it.’
The wheels on the chair were as clean as a whistle.
By the time Amy got home, she was dog-tired. She was also very frustrated. When she had approached Sergeant Goble about what she’d found out, he had forbidden her even to speak of Lettuce and Vera Bottomley. He’d shouted at her and waved her out of his office. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed. Amy had wanted to scream. If she couldn’t make him listen, then a grave miscarriage of justice was about to happen. From the evidence she had gathered, it looked as if Vera Bottomley – being a bit tipsy that night – had decided to make her way to the Blue Bird Cafe to collect her sweepstake winnings. She must have wandered too close to the river bank and fallen in.
Amy took off her coat and hung it on the hallstand. As she looked at herself in the mirror, she suddenly thought of something else. The landlady had said Vera put her coat on when she left the pub, but the body had no outdoor clothes on at all. Had Vera actually reached the Blue Bird Cafe and left her coat there? And if she had, surely the Canadians wouldn’t have let an old lady find her own way home in the dark. Amy frowned crossly. Oh, why hadn’t she thought of this while she was still in Ferring?
She took off her cap and threw it onto the ledge under the mirror. ‘It’s a good job Sergeant Goble refused to look at your report,’ she told her reflexion. ‘That was a glaringly obvious loose end.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. Great-Aunt Ada would have given her a stiff dressing-down if she’d been here. ‘Think logically,’ she would have said, ‘and above all, take a panoramic view of all the evidence in situ. Is there something important you’ve overlooked?’ Yes, there is, Amy thought to herself; the fact that it was a bitterly cold night and Vera Bottomley was an old woman walking beside a river that was exposed to the elements. The landlady saw her put her coat on. Of course she would have had a coat on. So where was it now?
‘Amy!’
Martha interrupted her thoughts. Amy spun round. ‘It’s Wally Hills – the boy I told you about. He’s missing.’
Chapter 6
Amy stood on tiptoes and craned her neck to see where her sister got off the train. She herself was in uniform, but when she stepped onto the platform, Rita was in civvies. She was wearing an attractive dark-brown double-breasted wool coat with a belt at the waist. The lapels had been piped with a tan braid, which was repeated on the jaunty hat perched on the side of her head, held there by a hatpin. Her brown pixie boots had a fur trim, and she had a large handbag with a flap tucked under her left arm and a small suitcase in her right hand.
The two sisters ran to embrace each other. ‘Did you have a good journey? What a lovely surprise! It’s so good to see you again. You look well. You look amazing. Have you lost weight?’ They were both talking at once, neither really listening to the other until they both stopped and laughed out loud. Threading her arm through Rita’s, Amy picked up the suitcase and they headed out of the station.
‘How are the wedding plans going?’ she asked.
‘Wonderfully well,’ said Rita. ‘We’re reasonably sure he’ll be able to get leave, providing the jolly old war doesn’t get in the way.’
‘Have you managed to fix a date then?’
It was always difficult trying to plan ahead. The Met didn’t like their police officers, particularly the women police officers, having long leave. With a war on, everyone was expected to put the country first. But of course, being a woman, even though her duties were only in the office, Rita would be expected to give up work when she got married anyway.
Rita squeezed Amy’s arm. ‘The sixth of June,’ she said, ‘so you’ve got plenty of notice, to make sure you can get the time off.’
‘Not even Hitler and the
whole bloomin’ German army will be able to keep me away,’ cried Amy. ‘You know the old rhyme: Married in the month of roses – June . . .’
‘I know, I know,’ said Rita laughing. ‘Life will be one long honeymoon. Everybody tells me the same thing.’
As they came into Station Approach, Amy stopped walking and drew in her breath. Just ahead of them, and with his back to them, was the tramp. As he shuffled painfully towards the town, a woman crossed the road and pushed something into his hand, before hurrying on her way.
‘Amy?’ said Rita. ‘What is it?’
‘Listen,’ Amy whispered urgently, ‘I have to stop that man. Don’t ask me to explain – it’ll take too long. Come with me, and don’t say anything.’
Rita stared after the tramp with a puzzled expression. ‘Why? What’s he done?’
‘Just trust me,’ Amy said earnestly.
They soon caught up with him.
‘Excuse me,’ said Amy. ‘Could I have a word?’
The man seemed startled by the sight of her uniform, and Amy could see in his eyes that he was weighing up whether or not to make a run for it, so she added, ‘I think the game is up, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said the tramp, and it was Amy’s turn to be surprised. His cut-glass, Oxford-English accent was the last thing she expected to come out of his mouth.
‘I’m a policewoman,’ said Amy, stating the obvious.
‘And I’m in plain clothes,’ Rita added. ‘I’m from the Met.’
The man swayed as if he was going to faint. ‘You’re not going to arrest me, are you? Please don’t do it in the middle of the street.’ He glanced around surreptitiously. ‘That would be too embarrassing for words.’
‘We need to talk,’ Amy said firmly. She glanced across the street to the cafe opposite the station entrance.
‘They won’t have me in there,’ said the tramp, hugging his bundle close to his chest. ‘Believe me, I’ve tried.’
Amy thought for a moment. ‘The station waiting room,’ she said. ‘There’s a nice fire in there.’