Tuppence to Tooley Street

by Harry Bowling

  The bookie nodded. ‘’Ave yer got a name?’

  Fat Stan looked at the bookie. ‘Me an’ you go back a long way, Tony. Don’t let’s play games. Yer know who that man was as well as I do.’

  Tony Allen smiled. ‘Yer don’t honestly fink Johnny Ross is capable of murder, do yer?’

  ‘Maybe not. ’E’s gotta be brought in though. If ’e’s in the clear ’e ain’t got nuffink ter worry about, but it looks suspicious all the same.’

  The bookie downed his drink and called out to Doreen. ‘Fill’em up, luv.’

  When the barmaid had replaced their drinks Tony leaned back in his seat. ‘What else yer got ter go on, Stan?’

  The fat detective emptied the remainder of the tonic into his gin. ‘There was a conversation in the pub between Mason an’ a stranger. Nobody knew ’is face, or they’re not tellin’. Anyway, Mason followed this geezer out an’ ’e didn’t come back. The prosser who was chattin’ Mason up before was the one who found ’is body. She can’t tell us much. She was too pissed ter remember what the geezer who was talkin’ ter Mason looked like. There’s anuvver fing worryin’ me, Tony. The squeeze that’s goin’ on in Bermon’sey Lane, was Mason involved in that?’

  Tony Allen nodded. ‘That was nuffink ter do wiv me, Stan, that was Mason’s little perk. Yer know I don’t work against the local traders. I employed Mason ter look after me interests at the race tracks. Yer know what it’s like. It’s a bleedin’ ’ard business, an’ we need ’ard men ter back us up. I tell yer one fing, when I found out about the Bermon’sey Lane affair I ’ad a set–to wiv Mason. Those mugs ’e brought in were bad news.’

  Fat Stan showed a ghost of a smile. ‘Yer didn’t take an iron bar ter back up yer argument, did yer?’

  The bookie’s eyes narrowed. ‘If it ’ad bin my intention ter do away wiv ’im, I’d ’ave made a tidier job of it, believe me.’

  ‘I’m only jokin’, Tony, but I’ve got a problem. There’s a new gaffer at the station as yer know. ’E’s a different kettle o’ fish ter the uvver lecherous ole bastard. This one wants results. Take it from me, ’e’s no mug, ’e’s out ter cripple the likes o’ you. So far I’ve kept yer name out o’ the frame, but the gaffer ain’t left me alone since the ware’ouse job in Shad Thames. If I can nail Ross, bring ’im in as a murder suspect I mean, it’ll take the pressure orf, if yer know what I’m gettin’ at?’

  ‘Well yer won’t find ’im at ’is own address, Stan.’

  ‘Where’s ’e ’oled up?’

  Tony Allen studied his glass for a second or two. ‘Try ’is married sister’s place. She runs a pub in Deptford, The Galleon, just off Tanners ’Ill. Yer’ll find ’im there I reckon.’

  The detective finished his drink. ‘I’m orf. Keep yer nose clean, Tone.’

  The bookie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. ‘There’s a little appreciation of yer support, Stanley. I only like ter see ’orses’ names goin’ in the frame, if yer get me drift.’

  Danny Sutton walked along St Thomas’s Street and stopped at the gates of Guy’s Hospital. A large, ruddy–faced woman in a man’s cap, wearing a blue apron tied around her waist, smiled at him and stood with her hands on her hips while he inspected the colourful array of flowers. ‘What’s yer fancy, luvvy?’ she asked. ‘There’s roses, carnations, an’ there’s some luvverly . . .’

  ‘Jus’ do us up a bundle, will yer?’ Danny said quickly.

  The flower–seller gathered a selection from the vases and wrapped them up in a large sheet of paper. ‘There we are. ’Old’em up, they won’t bite yer,’ she said, smiling wickedly.

  Danny climbed the stairs and joined the waiting visitors outside the ward. He held the bundle of flowers down at his side and looked around self–consciously. Mrs Thompson had told him that Kathy wanted to see him, and that on no account must he talk about Jack Mason. She had also told him that Kathy was very depressed over the loss of the baby and she hoped his visit might help to cheer her up. Danny felt uncomfortable as he followed the Saturday afternoon visitors into the long ward. He spotted Kathy and walked over to the foot of her bed where she lay propped up against the pillows with her hands folded outside the bedclothes. He was shocked by her appearance; she looked white and drawn, and her dark hair spread out across the pillow made her pallor seem worse.

  But Kathy smiled at him, and for an instant he saw a glimmer of welcome in her large dark eyes. He moved around the bed and bent down. His lips brushed her pale cheek and he could smell the scent of Lifebuoy soap. He sat down and leaned forward, covering her hands in his, and grinned. ‘D’yer like the flowers?’ he asked.

  She nodded, her eyes fixing him solemnly. ‘Fanks fer comin’ in, Danny. I ’oped yer would.’

  ‘Yer couldn’t keep me away. ’Ow yer feelin’?’

  ‘I’m okay. Yer know about the baby?’

  Danny nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Yer mum told me.’

  ‘Did she tell yer not ter mention about Jack?’

  ‘Yer know then?’

  Kathy nodded slowly. ‘They tried ter keep it from me, but I’eard two of the patients talkin’ an’ I’ve seen the paper.’

  Danny winced. ‘It must ’ave bin an ’orrible shock, gettin’ it that way,’ he said.

  Kathy turned her head towards him. ‘There’s nuffink inside me, Danny. I feel no pain, no sadness, nuffink. It’s scary.’

  Danny squeezed her hands in his and saw the tear slip down her cheek onto the pillow. ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said, ‘there’s nuffink ter be scared about.’

  ‘I’m scared ’cos I’m empty, Danny. I should feel somefink, shouldn’t I?’

  Danny took out a handkerchief and dabbed her cheek. ‘Yer need time, Kath. It’s shock. I know what me ole mum would say if she was ’ere. ‘You ’ave a good cry dear, an’ yer’ll feel better.’

  ‘I want ter cry, Danny. I want ter cry buckets, but I can’t, I’m empty.’

  Danny drew a line along the white counterpane with his finger, then he looked into her dark eyes. ‘Listen ter me. I’m not very good at this sort o’ fing but I tell yer, Kath, when I was in Dunkirk I saw grown men cryin’. They was soldiers who ’ad gone frew ’ell. I see ’em sittin’ at the roadside cryin’, an’ you know what? I wished I could ’ave done the same. We’d all bin frew a bad time an’ some of us didn’t know ’ow ter cry. I wished I could ’ave cried. Nobody was laughin’ at ’em, we all felt the same. Some of us bottled it up, an’ uvvers jus’ cried. There’s no shame in tears. Yer know, I saw me dad cry once.’

  Kathy’s eyes travelled over his face and he looked down at his clenched fists. ‘We was at The Trocette. It was a real sad film. People was blowin’ their noses an’ I could ’eard the ole girls sobbin’. Me, I was tryin’ ’ard not ter laugh. Anyway, I looked up at me dad, an’ ’e was brushin’ a tear away from ’is eye. ’E caught me clockin’ ’im an’ ’e said ’e ’ad a bit o’ dirt in’is eye. I knew ’e was cryin’, an’ ’e knew I knew, but ’e wouldn’t admit it. I wouldn’t ’ave minded though. I wouldn’t mind if yer cried, Kath. Yer can cry all over me if yer like.’

  Kathy’s eyes filled with tears and she bit on her bottom lip. Danny reached out to her and her arms came up to him. He held her close and felt her sobs as she buried her head in his chest. ‘Oh, Danny, why did I go to ’im? Why didn’t I wait? I never stopped finkin’ about yer. Every day I wondered if yer was gettin’ wounded. I always wanted yer, but yer was never around. Yer never seemed ter be there when I wanted yer. Why didn’t I wait, Danny?’

  The young man gulped and patted her back gently. He could feel the tears falling onto his neck. ‘I’m ’ere, Kathy, I’m ’ere,’ he said softly.

  The ward sister stopped at the foot of Kathy’s bed and gave Danny a concerned look. Danny winked and eased Kathy back onto the pillow. ‘There. Yer’ll feel better soon. Dry yer eyes,’ he said, handing her his handkerchief.

  Kathy dabbed at her face and gave him a sheepish smile. ‘I’m okay. Fanks.’
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  He pocketed his handkerchief. ‘I’ve gotta be orf,’ he said. ‘Close yer eyes fer a while. Yer mum’s comin’ in soon.’

  Kathy gripped his hand. ‘I’m goin’ ter me aunt’s fer a couple o’ weeks, Danny. I need some time ter meself. Will I see yer around when I get back?’

  ‘I’ll be around, Kath. I’m not goin’ anywhere.’

  Danny left the hospital and walked slowly back to Dawson Street. He felt a tightness in his chest and a heaviness weighing down on him. In his coat pocket he still had Alison’s letter, and even while he had sat with Kathy the letter had flashed into his mind. He felt that he had betrayed Kathy. He had encouraged her to show her emotions, and then she had asked to see him and he had led her to believe that he would be around when she needed him. Danny realised he had promised too much. She might dwell on what he had told her and expect more of him that he was sure he could give. He might be around, but he could not guarantee his feelings. His need for Alison pulled hard on him; the thought of her sent his pulse racing–and he knew in his heart that he would answer her letter, very soon.

  Danny battled with guilt as he walked home. He had not made any actual commitment to Kathy, he had only said that he would be around. She couldn’t expect him to be forever ready to drop everything and rush to her when she called. He had his own life to lead. Then he suddenly realised how selfish his thoughts were. Was it love that made him want to dash to Alison, or was it purely lust? Was it love that made him go to Kathy or was it pity? What was that word ‘love’ Alison had said rolled easily from his tongue? Was it many different things appearing as one? He needed desperately to discover a real answer, but instead a hollowness had opened up inside him. As he turned into Dawson Street he was aware of nothing but pain tightening like a steel band around his head.

  Right on closing time that Saturday two men walked into The Galleon in Deptford.

  ‘Sorry, gents, it’s after three o’clock,’ the barman said, stiffening.

  A warrant was flashed, and soon after Johnny Ross was led out between two large detectives. A bundle containing his personal belongings was collected and he sat quietly as he was driven to Deptford Police Station. When he arrived he was taken to a room where there was nothing but two chairs and a small table. He was left alone for over an hour, with only his thoughts for company, and he saw the whole picture opening up before him: the trial would be held at the Bailey of course; the many witnesses would naturally testify that Jack Mason was a law–abiding citizen, who had been cruelly murdered for the small amount of money on his person; the number one exhibit, an iron bar, would cause the jury to shake their heads in horror as it was passed among them. There was only one verdict he could expect, and the twelve good men and true would not even retire to consider. The formality over, the judge, who, in his mind’s eye, looked remarkably like Bonky Williams, would put on the black cap and pronounce sentence. Johnny heard the words echoing around the court. ‘. . . and you will hang by the neck until you are dead.’ He would try to stay calm and learn how to play chess. The warders would be okay, they would look pityingly at him as the footsteps in the corridor sounded and the mumbling priest read from the good book.

  The door opened and Johnny jumped like a scared rabbit. ‘Come on, Ross, you’re goin’ ter Dock’ead nick.’

  Johnny Ross tried to control his shaking knees as he stared into the ugly face of Stanley Stockbridge. A huge hand took his arm in a tight grip and steered him out to the waiting car. ‘I’ve seen you ’round the manor, Ross, ain’t I?’ Fat Stan leered.

  Johnny could only nod as he was bundled into the police car.

  Chapter Twenty–Four

  On Monday the 5th of August Johnny Ross was hauled from the police station cell and the questions began once more. At first he had insisted that he did not go near the body, and he established through Cora a reason for being in the locality on that particular night. But the police were confident that a charge could be brought within a matter of hours. A distinctive footprint in the blood matched up to the suspect’s shoes, and traces of blood were found in the tread. Johnny then changed his story and said that he had seen three men attack Jack Mason and he had gone over to find out if there was anything he could do to help the victim. When he had realised the man was past help, he had panicked and run away. The police interrogated Johnny for hours but he stuck to his story. A thorough search of the area around the scene of the crime was in operation and the police felt sure that as soon as the murder weapon was found their suspect would crack.

  As he sat alone during a brief lull in the grilling, Johnny Ross could almost feel the hangman’s noose tightening around his neck. They had even established a motive for the killing: they knew of the bad blood between him and Mason and they had supporting statements, or so they said. The lack of sleep and the futility of it all overcame him and he lowered his head onto the hard table top. He fell into a troubled doze and when he awoke he felt stiff all over. It seemed to Johnny as though he had been asleep for hours. Then he heard the gruff voices outside the locked door, and the key in the lock. Two stern–faced detectives came into the room and one of them sat down opposite him. A sheet of paper was thrust in front of him and a pen slapped onto the table.

  Early on that Monday morning the pale, drawn figure of Violet Thompson walked wearily along Tooley Street. Her shopping bag seemed extra heavy and her legs felt as though they were going to give out on her. Alice Sutton had just left the greengrocer’s and almost bumped into her.

  ‘’Ello, luv,’ Alice said. ‘Yer look done in. ’Ow’s young Kathy?’

  Violet put her bag down at her feet and pressed her hand against the small of her back. ‘She’s doin’ well, Alice,’ she said slowly, wincing visibly. ‘Yer Danny’s visit perked ’er up no end.’

  Alice looked at Violet with concern and noticed a discolouring around her left eye and a swelling in the corner of her mouth. She put her hand on Violet’s forearm. ‘Yer all right, luv?’ she asked gently. ‘Yer don’t look at all well.’

  Kathy’s mother drew in her breath and tears welled up in her eyes. ‘Alice, I’ve gotta talk ter somebody,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘I’m worried out o’ me life.’

  Alice picked up Violet’s shopping bag and nodded her head towards Dawson Street. ‘C’mon, let’s ’ave a nice cuppa roun’ my place. We’ll ’ave a chat.’

  A horse–cart trundled through the turning and the sound of its iron–rimmed wheels on the cobbles carried into the tidy parlour. The two women sat facing each other and Alice watched as Violet sipped her tea. When she had finished Alice took the cup out of her trembling hands and laid it down on the table. ‘Are yer feelin’ any better, luv?’ she asked.

  Violet nodded and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m worried, sick, Alice.’

  ‘Kathy’ll be all right now, Vi. She’s over the worst,’ Alice said quietly.

  ‘It’s not Kathy, it’s me ole man,’ Violet replied, looking down at her clasped hands. ‘We ’ad a terrible row last night. Over Mason.’

  ‘Go on, Vi,’ Alice prompted.

  Violet took a deep breath. ‘Charlie come in late last night, pissed as usual, an’ ’e started on me.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Alice said quickly. ‘Did ’e give yer that eye?’

  Violet stared down at her hands. Alice began to feel uncomfortable and she decided to change the subject. She leaned forward in her chair. ‘My Danny told me they’ve got young Johnny Ross fer the murder,’ she said. ‘Allen the bookie told ’im last night.’

  Violet’s hand came up to her mouth and she closed her eyes tightly. ‘Oh my Gawd! What am I gonna do, Alice?’ she groaned.

  ‘What d’yer mean, Vi? There’s nuffink yer can do.’

  ‘But yer don’t understan’, Alice. Johnny Ross never killed Mason. Charlie done it,’ she blurted out, and she began sobbing loudly.

  Alice was shocked. ‘Gawd Almighty Gawd! ’E can’t ’ave!’

  Violet’s eyes opened wide and bored into Alice’s. ‘�
�E told me ’imself.’

  Alice shook her head slowly. ‘It don’t make any sense at all. Yer Charlie won’t ’ave ’is own daughter back in the ’ouse.’

  Violet laughed bitterly through her tears. ‘’E didn’t do Jack Mason in fer Kathy. It was somefink else.’

  Alice looked bewildered. ‘Kathy ain’t Charlie’s daughter, Alice,’ Violet said in a tired voice. ‘I met ’im after I fell fer Kathy. ’E’s never let me forget it neivver.’

  Alice nodded. ‘So that’s why ’e knocks yer about, an’ won’t’ave the poor little cow back in the ’ouse. But why did ’e kill Mason?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Alice,’ Mrs Thompson began.

  Alice stopped her. ‘Let’s fill yer cup, luv,’ she said.

  The two women faced each other in the small parlour and sipped their tea in silence. Violet studied the flower pattern on her cup. ‘Yer see, Alice,’ she began, ‘I’ve never spoke ter Jack Mason, but my Charlie knows ’im well. Charlie comes from Dock’ead same as Mason. A long time ago there was some fiddlin’ goin’ on where Charlie used ter work. I fink it was one o’ the wharves in Dock’ead. They was gettin’ stuff out an’ Mason was floggin’ it. Charlie got done out o’ some money an’’e went after one o’ Mason’s mates. My Charlie was an’ ’andful then, ’e give this bloke a goin’ over, an’ the police got involved. Charlie got six months fer assault. Then a few months ago there was an argument in the pub between Charlie an’ Mason. Charlie was pissed an’ ’e told Jack Mason ter leave Kathy alone. Mason must ’ave ’eard the talk about Kathy not bein’ Charlie’s an’ ’e frew it up in ’is face. The pair of ’em nearly got at it but they was stopped. Charlie told me the same night ’e would end up doin’ Mason in, but he didn’t kill Mason fer Kathy, it was fer ’is own pride. When ’e come ’ome on Friday night wiv blood on ’is coat–sleeve ’e wouldn’t stop goin’ on about it. Now you’ve told me that Johnny Ross is bein’ blamed fer it, I feel so guilty. What can I do, Alice?’