‘I’m just trying to find out what happened. It’s what you hired me for.’
‘I didn’t expect to figure as first suspect.’
‘Then don’t.’
I can see him thinking it out. Making up his mind.
‘I knew it was no go as soon as I got there. With Sally, I mean. So I had a drink, just the one, you know. To save face.’ He pauses, makes a derisory noise in his throat. ‘Hah. I left about nine, met Ollie in the lane. We chatted for a while, ten minutes perhaps. Then I came home. I didn’t see anyone else, though it would have been bright enough if there’d been anyone to see.’
‘What time did you get back?’
‘You’re really getting into the swing of this, aren’t you?’
‘You should have told me.’ I hate the way it sounds, like a nagging wife.
‘Perhaps I should. But you must see why I didn’t want to.’
‘You thought I’d judge you?’
‘I’m not exactly proud of it.’
‘But the point is, it doesn’t matter. It’s not about your feelings or mine. It’s about finding out who killed that girl.’
‘Do you seriously believe I might know something about it?’
My turn to be silent.
‘You think I’d have been stupid enough to set you on to it if I’d done it myself?’
‘I don’t know. Would you?’
‘OK. An alibi then. If you insist.’ There’s resignation in his tone, and whatever I’ve won, I’ve lost something too. ‘I warn you, it’s not a very good one. I was on Mile Hill when I heard the bombs. Didn’t bother with finding a shelter, just came on home. Got in, I don’t know, perhaps ten to ten? Something like that. Fan might know, she was still up. But after that I’ve no corroboration. No witnesses. The telephone rang about midnight, woke me up. The ARP warden, to say the pub had been bombed, that there had been fatalities. They told me there was nothing we could do overnight, we had to wait for the Heavy Rescue Crew to come up from Southampton. So I went back to bed. No witnesses to that, either.’
He’s right. It’s not much of an alibi. But there’s no point in alienating him by asking any more questions, since I don’t really believe he had anything to do with the girl’s death. I was angry with him for all the wrong reasons, let my feelings cloud my judgement.
‘I’ve got a confession to make, too.’
‘Yes?’ The single syllable is hostile, clipped.
‘There was a note. With the photograph. It doesn’t say much but . . .’
I pull the fold of paper from my pocket, hold it out to him. The tension as he takes it from my hand is palpable. I watch him unfold it, read. I know what it says by heart.
Dear Sis
I cant stand this nomore I’m getting out. I got shore leave tomorrow but after I wont go back. Sis, you got to help me. I’ll be at Snappy’s till the 16th. Dont let me down.
Frank.
‘A brother,’ Nash says at last. ‘A brother who was expecting her. Yesterday.’
‘I thought, if I could find him . . .’
‘It’s the seventeenth already, Jo. He could be anywhere by now. This Snappy could be anyone.’
Though his tone is still austere, I take heart from his use of my name.
‘It could be a photographer, though, don’t you think? A nickname for someone who takes snaps? The picture was taken locally. It’s got to be a chance.’
‘I suppose so. But even if they do know . . . don’t go haring off after him on your own. If he’s done what he said in the letter, the man’s AWOL. It could be dangerous.’
I hate being told what to do. And I’m not going to promise anything. But I don’t want to start another fight. I just want to get on, to follow my hunch.
‘All right.’
*
After she’s gone, Nash can’t settle. He paces his room. He’s so angry with himself, with her. He wants to yell, swear, slam his fist into the wall. He’s not ashamed of going to the pub that night. Sal was a decent sort, didn’t make a secret of what she did. Kept it simple, an honest trade, sex for money instead of mucking everything up with emotion. But he can’t deny it’s humiliating to be caught out in the lie.
Found out. Out for a duck. Out for a fuck. Nash nil while Lester sweeps the board. Perhaps he’ll have to go celibate. The irony – unmanned by Josy Fox. Shrapnel couldn’t manage it, but she’s found him out. Should have kept to his own rules in the first place. No pity fucks, no sympathy. Pay and stay free.
Once, only once. Once too bloody often. Now she thinks she owns him.
Plenty of reasons to kick himself.
9
The same day, late morning and afternoon, Southampton
I GET OFF THE BUS AT Stag Gates. The conductor says a Heinkel was brought down in Padwell Road on Saturday, and like Nash said, the offices at the top of Asylum Green have been badly hit. It’s a relief to see that College Place seems to be relatively untouched, the businesses open. Bank, furrier, accountant. And there’s the photographer’s. Not looking so good. A dusty red curtain obscures the window, and there’s a notice on the shop door. GONE TO LUNCH. BACK IN FIVE MINUTES. The faded script and curling edges of paper suggest the writer has been gone much longer than that, months rather than minutes. I try the handle, but the door is firmly shut.
*
Frank’s been on the lookout since first light, even when there was nothing to see through the grimy glass but grey shadows. The bedroom window is loose in its frame and draughts whistle round his ears, but there’s a good view up and down the street. He keeps as still as he can, despite the discomfort. The room’s empty, bare boards underfoot. The walls are thin, and every blasted move makes a sound. Mustn’t twitch the tatty net curtain, shuffle his feet. Just keep watching.
His leave is over, and she still hasn’t come. He must have been stupid to think Ruth would want to help him, to believe she’d turn up. His sister has always been a fly one, first sign of trouble and she’s off.
He should never have risked coming here. He’s been wasting his time, waiting for her. He should have got away, legged it the minute he could.
From today, he’s AWOL.
They’ll crucify him.
It doesn’t matter what they do, he won’t go back. He can still hear the screams, see the blokes drowning in oil, burning in the water. They can do what they like – court-martial him, stick him in the brig – anything’s better than that.
It’s bright now, but the day hasn’t brought any luck. She’s scuppered him, the silly cow. Without her, he’s had it. No money, no cover. They’ll pick him up the minute he puts his nose outdoors.
What the hell is he going to do? It’s hard to keep on the alert. All the same, he can’t quite bring himself to give up, to move on.
He’s seen them all come and go. Milkman. Postie. A bloke in a blue suit and brown shoes, walking to work. A hard-faced blonde, opening up the shop next door. Looks like a tart, and he can smell her cheap scent a mile off.
Two old women, slow as shit. Empty shopping bags, looking for a queue. Coming back slower, bags lumpy, cabbages, a bottle wrapped in newspaper.
Watching. Can’t afford to rest.
Nothing to see.
Nothing.
Wait a minute, though. Who’s this?
He sees a woman cross the road. Tracks her walk, the sway of her hips. Tidy figure, bit on the skinny side. No tits, nothing to get hold of up top. Red hair. Now she’s closer, he can see she’s middle-aged. He loses interest. There’s nothing for him there.
But she doesn’t pass by like the others. She’s coming straight for the shop, like she knows what she wants. Now she’s in the doorway, out of sight. He hears the rattle of the door. What’s the nosy bitch doing? Can’t she read?
Back in view. She’s looking up and down the road. On surveillance, like him. He nearly laughs, but he’s too fucking scared.
Official. She looks official. Something on her mind. Does she know about him?
/> She moves, brisk; out of sight again.
He hears the ting of the fur shop bell. He crouches, ear to the bare floorboards. The voices come through, the blonde and the other one. Muffled. No words he can hear.
Chit-chat.
Chit-chat.
The bell again. He stands, quick, sees Ginger cross in front of the shop.
Piss off, you nosy cow. Nothing to see.
She’s off at a clip, turning towards the side alley, not going away. Footsteps confident, like she’ll never give up.
Who does she think she is? Fuckin’ cheek, serve her right if . . .
Squeak of the side gate.
Breathing hard, he sidles along the wall, works his way down the stairs. Remembers in time to avoid the ones that creak.
Movement outside, very close. She’ll see where he smashed the glass to get in.
He freezes, waiting.
Heart pounding.
He’ll kill her before she makes him go back.
*
The saleswoman in the furrier’s says Mr Legge moved out of the studio after the big air raid in November.
‘He’s got a room over Rownhams way, I think. Some kind of mission place. By what he says, it’s not much like dear old home. Straightlaced, you know. Has to mind his p’s and q’s.’ She laughs.
‘You don’t know the address?’
‘Sorry, love, no. But I’ll ask him next time I see him if you like.’
‘Does he come back often?’
She shrugs. ‘Two or three times a week. Got to, see. Place like that, they won’t let him have the pa—’
A querulous voice sounds from the back room. ‘Norah? Is that a customer?’
‘Just an enquiry, Mr Glass.’ She shakes her head at me, mouths ‘sorry’.
I take the hint and go. If someone is there, it might be my chance. I have to try and find a name.
I can’t see inside the photographer’s from the front because the red curtain blots out any chance of looking into the shop. But the latch on the side gate lifts easily, lets me into a neglected backyard. Weeds grow up through the paving and a window beside the back door is broken, hastily repaired with a bit of cardboard shoved into the gap. Something about it makes me feel uneasy, and not just because I’m snooping.
I leave the gate ajar, knock on the back door.
It yields to my touch, swings open.
‘Hello!’ I call. ‘Anyone home?’
Deep in the gloom of the house, something moves.
‘Hello?’
‘Come on, you daft bugger, come on. Come on.’
The raucous greeting takes me aback. I step inside cautiously. It’s dark, stinking of disuse and something animal. I hesitate.
‘Good girlie.’ The voice is wrong, somehow. There’s a rattle, a scrape like fingernails on tin. A squawk. ‘Daft bugger.’
It’s a parrot! That must be what the woman in the shop had been going to say. I let out a shaky breath, move forward more confidently. I’m not afraid of a parrot.
‘Fuckin’ daft.’ This voice is most definitely human. ‘Live to regret it, maybe.’
A click as the door behind me shuts and every last vestige of light is cut off. Darkness swirls as a fierce hand grips my wrist, forces it up behind my back.
‘Stand still, you bitch,’ the man mutters. Something cold presses into the angle of my jaw. Freezes me mid-struggle. ‘Tell me quick, what you nosing about for? An’ make it quiet.’
I’ve heard people say the hair stood up on the back of my neck though I’ve never felt it before. I’ve never had a gun at my throat either, but I know instinctively that’s what it is. I’ve never felt so afraid, not when Grandfather took his belt to me, not when the telegram came about Richard. Not even in the worst of the Blitz.
‘I’m looking for the photographer.’ My voice shakes. ‘I wanted to ask—’
‘About me?’
‘I don’t know who you are.’
The cold digs deeper into my throat.
‘Where’d you come from?’
I haven’t got time to think of a clever answer, calculate what I should say.
‘Romsey.’
‘Romsey?’ I feel him go still. ‘Did Ruth send you?’
I can’t even shake my head, the way he’s holding me. I’m too scared the gun will go off.
‘I did come about a girl.’
‘Don’t play clever with me.’
‘If I could explain?’
‘You better bloody explain. And make it quick.’
‘Daft bugger,’ the bird chimes in. I can’t help agreeing.
‘I was hoping the photographer might help me. I have a picture, a sailor—’
My breath cuts off. The hand on my wrist tightens, pushing my arm higher up my back. The pressure from the metal at my throat is unbearable. Wise or not, I can’t help struggling to free myself, to breathe. My shoulder wrenches painfully and stars explode in my vision; dark curtains flap to extinguish them. I feel myself begin to fall.
‘Hold up, you bitch.’
The pressure slackens, but I can’t stand. There is time, I don’t know how much, when I don’t know anything.
*
When I come to, I can see. The pale outline of a window shows between ragged red curtains, and a dim light filters into the room where I am. I’m half sitting, half sprawled on a scratchy, uneven surface that stinks of dust. And though I’m awake, it seems as if I’m hallucinating. There’s a tree, and a bird, watching me. Shifting beadily from foot to foot.
‘Good girlie,’ the bird voice says. ‘Come on.’
The parrot. The tree’s his perch, and the smell’s strong enough in here to tell me this is no dream. I’m lying awkwardly on the photographer’s chaise longue, pain in my sore shoulder and the place on my neck where the gun has bruised me. I’ve got just enough sense left to lie doggo.
‘Here.’ A rough hand nudges me and something cold splashes onto my face. ‘Wake up. Got you some water.’
I make a pretence of stirring, struggle upright in my seat. My captor’s face swims in the dimness. He looks like the sailor in the picture, and I begin to connect it up. I take the water, drink thirstily. Try and work out what to say that won’t get me killed.
He squats on his haunches in front of me. Wary, he watches me as intently as the bird. He’s thin, unkempt. Stubble shadows his face, and his clothes look hand-me-down, worn into all the wrong shapes for his body. He’s made sure he’s far enough away that I can’t reach him, but he’s not holding a gun on me any more. Between us on the floor is my handbag, contents tipped out anyhow. My purse is open, and I guess it’s empty, but what takes my attention are the photographs. He’s put them centre stage, where we both can see them.
‘You do know Ruth,’ he says. ‘Stupid cow, why didn’t you say? What’s happened to the little bitch? Why didn’t she come herself?’
I don’t know where to begin.
‘Tell me about her,’ I say. ‘Tell me about Ruth.’
I don’t know why, but tears are already running down my face.
*
In Romsey, Nash pushes the door to the back room of the Comrades’ Club open, and is met by a fog of cigarette smoke and stale beer. Three men in Home Guard uniform look up from their pints. Two more at the snooker table pause in their game.
‘Watch out,’ one of the players says, sour. ‘Careless talk costs lives.’
A pint drinker grins. ‘Walls have ears, don’t you mean?’
‘I mean, we got a spy in the room.’
The bald one with the corporal’s stripe speaks. ‘Come off it, Fred. You know Captain Nash.’
‘No captain of mine. Hadn’t heard he was in the Guard.’
Nash ignores the hostility. ‘Hello, Fred. Same old, eh? Sorry to intrude. I wanted a quick word with Tom, here.’
‘What can I do you for, Captain?’ The corporal again.
‘Wondered if you could help me with a couple of things.’ They move away from the snooker ta
ble, leaving a thick silence behind them. ‘Fred’s right, you know. I’ve no right to rank.’
‘You’ll always be Captain to me. Can I get you a drink?’
‘I won’t, thanks. You’ll have heard, I’m bothered about this dead girl. No one seems to know anything about her, but I wondered . . .’ He cocks his head to the group behind him, where the mutter of conversation has started up again. ‘Is it just me they won’t talk to? I know you hear things in the shop.’
Tom Fox laughs. ‘You’re right about that. Plenty of gossip, not much sense, most of the time. All, where’s the bananas? Why can’t I get a lemon? Mind you, I did hear—’
‘Yes?’
‘That you’ve taken on my niece at your place. They say she’s got real posh.’
‘Posh? I wouldn’t have said that. But it’s true, she is working for me.’
‘Always was a bright girl. Pity Dad couldn’t ever see it. Tell her—’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t mind? Bit of a cheek.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Say, Sylvie and me, we’d be glad to see her. Be blowed to Dad, she’s welcome to come round to ours any time.’
‘I’ll tell her. You’ll bear in mind what I said? Anything about the dead girl would be a help. Gossip, whatever.’
‘Our Sylvie’s the one for that. I’ll see what she says.’ He walks to the door with Nash, steps out into the fresh air. ‘That’s better. Bit of an atmosphere in there.’
‘You mean Fred?’ Nash shrugs. ‘Can’t win them all.’
The hut stands beside the millstream, and they stop, looking down into the water, watching the billow of weed, the spotted flicker of trout.
‘You know what I think?’ Fox says. ‘There’s not enough talk for once. Someone’s got a-hold of it. Keeping it quiet.’
‘I agree.’ Nash settles his hat. ‘You’ll let me know if you hear anything?’
‘Course I will, Captain.’
*
Tom Fox waits while Nash crosses the footbridge over the stream and walks away. His bones ache. Trouble ahead, and he’s getting old. Too old, maybe. He spits into the water, watches as a great dark fish darts away.
‘What’d old Tin Chops want then? Nosing around when a man’s off duty.’
‘Doing his job, Fred. Making enquiries about that poor lass who got killed up at the Cricketers’.’
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 8