They choose to sit at the far end of the table. Alf settles doggedly into his chair while the other boy perches precariously, looking as if he’s ready to bolt.
Nash positions himself across from them, where he can see both their faces.
‘So,’ he says, ‘what’s it all about?’
‘It’s like this, sir,’ Alf says. ‘Pete got hold of something he shouldn’t have. He says he didn’t think anything about it except the obvious, and then when your Mrs Lester came round asking, he didn’t like to say anything about it.’
He casts a bitter look at the other boy, who’s worrying at the skin around his thumbnail, avoiding eye contact.
It’s news to Nash that Mrs Lester has done anything of the sort, and he thinks, fleetingly, that it sounds as if it’s her who should have been knocking at his door with things to say. He’ll have to track her down first thing in the morning.
‘I see,’ he says. ‘So what was this something?’
‘He claims he got shy,’ Alf says with disgust. He takes an oblong of card from his pocket, scoots it across the table to Nash. ‘Bit late if you ask me, but there you go. It’s a dirty picture, see. Horrible stuff.’
The scrap of pasteboard reaches him face down. Expecting something commonplace, Nash turns it over. He’s about to say something, ask what it’s got to do with his enquiries, when the picture registers. Steals the words from his mouth and turns his belly sour.
The picture is dog-eared, tatty with handling, and it has a sepia, last-century look. Even so, it’s clear enough. It shows a girl on the cusp between child and adult. She lies on a padded couch with one raised end and twisty legs that finish in animal paws. The girl’s semi-naked, barefoot and dressed in rags. Her flesh is streaked with dirt, like a child who’s been living in the gutter. Her body, the budding breasts and half-developed genitalia are not hidden. With a wantonness that belies her childish looks, she seems to offer herself to the viewer, one knee raised and a hand parting the grubby rags to display her sex.
Nash shivers, but it’s nothing to do with the chill of the morning room and its unlit fire.
‘What’s all this about?’ he says harshly, addressing Pete directly for the first time. ‘Where did you get this?’
He holds up a hand to stop Alf speaking. He doesn’t need an interpreter, he wants the truth.
‘It’s like Alf says,’ the boy whines. ‘I found it. Didn’t think it’d do any harm.’ He gnaws at his thumbnail again. ‘Well, I knew it was wrong, but I never thought . . . I never meant . . .’
‘Don’t bother with excuses,’ Nash snaps. ‘Tell me what you know. What’s it got to do with me or Mrs Lester?’
‘It’s ’cos of the girl,’ Pete says. ‘I told the lady what I knew about her, voluntary like, but I couldn’t say anything about that to her, now could I?’
‘Voluntary,’ Alf butts in, ‘my eye. Took her money, didn’t you? Now just stop mucking about and tell Mr Nash straight or you’ll get another clip round the ear.’
Pete cringes. ‘She was asking about a girl in the post office, but the boss, he wouldn’t tell her nothing. So I followed her and told her about how she used to come an’ pick up her post. Like a nun, I told her, ’cos she was. Butter wouldn’t hardly melt. But she said she was the same as the tart up at the Cricketers’ an’ she gave me half a crown. I never asked,’ he adds virtuously. ‘She offered, said it was business.’
‘All right.’ Nash is still trying to work out which she is which from the muddle of Pete’s story. ‘So, you told Mrs Lester the girl who picked up the post was dressed like a nun, and Mrs Lester gave you half a crown?’
‘That’s right,’ Pete says. ‘An’ a couple of ciggies, if you must know.’
‘Never mind about that.’ Nash glances at the photograph. He doesn’t want to have to look at it again, but he must. There’s nothing he can see that would definitely identify it or the girl. But he doesn’t see how it can be Ruth. The picture’s too old for that. He frowns. ‘I still don’t understand what you think this has got to do with the girl.’
‘I was telling you, wasn’t I?’ Pete says indignantly. ‘I told that Mrs Lester, I’d seen the girl up the Cut a few times. She’d kind of slink along like she was trying to hide an’ I got to wondering what the big secret was. So I followed her, tracking, you know, like a Red Indian. See if I could find out where she was going. But I never thought, I swear it, I didn’t know she was the same as the tart . . .’
He grinds to a halt, and Nash is aware that the heart of the story is close now, hovering behind the boy’s reluctance to continue. It’s got to be something discreditable, something Pete thinks will get him into even more trouble.
‘Don’t worry about that for the moment,’ Nash says. ‘Tell me what happened when you followed her.’
There’s a silence. Alf shifts impatiently in his seat.
With an apprehensive glance at his friend, Pete says, ‘I found her hidey-hole, didn’t I? Went in one evening when she wasn’t about. Stuff in there, girl’s stuff, didn’t take any notice of that. Didn’t touch any of it, honest.’
He looks straight at Nash, and there is appeal in his glance.
‘I see,’ Nash says, and this time, he thinks he does. ‘So what did you touch?’
‘There was a ciggy tin,’ Pete bursts out. ‘One of the big ones, Gold Flake, fifty cigarettes. Thought maybe if there was a lot I could have one or two, no one would notice. It’s not like stealing, everyone knows ciggies are fair game. So I opened the tin but it wasn’t fags, it was pictures.’ He goes red. ‘There was a lot, but I only took the one. And it was ages ago, nothing to do with the air raid. Not ’cos she was dead ’cos I didn’t know about that, did I? Not till the lady said.’
‘You think they were her photographs?’
‘Gotta be. It was her den for certain. I saw her going in and out.’
‘And the tin?’
‘I put it back where I found it.’
‘In full view, was it?’
Pete squirms. ‘Not exactly. It was in a sort of cupboard. It wasn’t locked or anything.’
‘A cupboard?’ Nash is astonished. He’s been imagining a hole in a hedge somewhere. ‘What kind of place is this den?’
‘It’s a sort of hut. Full of junk an’ falling down. Nothing in it but spiders mostly.’
‘OK. So where is it?’
‘You go up the Cut, nothing wrong in that, anyone can go up to the bridge. There’s a path just there, goes into the woods.’
‘On to Ramillies’ estate?’
Pete looks sheepish. ‘Suppose so.’
‘There’s an old summer house,’ Alf breaks in. ‘Just about lost in the brambles. It’s not far from the big house but the woods haven’t been cut back for donkey’s years.’
‘That’s it,’ Pete says. ‘You been in there?’
Alf shrugs, nonchalant. ‘Seen it. All in a night’s work. But you gotta watch out for old Mingers.’
Pete shudders.
‘Mingers?’ Nash asks.
‘A big bloke with a ginger beard,’ Pete says. ‘An’ a gun.’
‘That’s the one,’ Alf agrees. ‘You don’t want to go tangling with him.’
Pete draws a quivering breath, lets it out in a barely coherent flood of words.
‘I’ve bin up there loads of times, never seen him before. But I thought, after what the lady said today, Mrs Lester, I thought I’d . . . Hadn’t even gone in when this bloke shows up an’ tells me to bugger off quick or he’d shoot me.’
Alf nods. ‘That’s Mingers. Outdoor man at Ramillies. Proper bastard, he is.’
‘Ah.’ Nash makes sense of Alf’s version of the name Menzies. He’s seen Ramillies’ gamekeeper around town occasionally, though he’s had nothing to do with the man personally. But he can imagine why Pete might have been scared. ‘You say you’ve been to the place often, Pete? What were you doing?’
‘Nothing,’ Pete says sullenly. ‘Just looking.’
&
nbsp; ‘At the pictures?’
‘Yeah. Gonna make something of it?’
Nash ignores the comment, picks his words carefully.
‘So today, because what Mrs Lester told you meant the girl wouldn’t be going back, you thought you’d go and see if the pictures were still there?’
‘I thought I could have them. She don’t want them any more.’
‘Were they all like this, Pete? As . . . rude?’
The boy nods.
‘The same girl? Old pictures, like this?’
‘Dunno. Wasn’t looking at the faces.’ A pause, then he says, ‘Wasn’t many pictures that were brown, like that. Most of them were all right. New, sort of shiny. I took an old one ’cos I thought she wouldn’t notice so much. Dunno what a girl wants with pictures like that anyhow.’
It’s a question that’s occurred to Nash. But it won’t be solved by sitting here. He’ll have to try and get hold of them himself. Part of him wants to set out now, find the place before anyone else does. But it would be foolish, at night, with the gamekeeper prowling. There’d be no excuse if he were caught. The man Menzies would be justified in shooting anyone out on private land so late.
‘All right, lads,’ he says. ‘I want you to promise me that you’ll leave it with me.’
Pete nods. ‘Sure thing, Mr Nash. I never meant nothing bad. You won’t have to tell anyone, will you? My dad would skin me alive if he found out.’
‘There’s no need to tell your father. But I don’t want you going back there again.’
‘No fear. Can I go home now? It’s getting late.’
Nash glances at the clock. It’s almost ten. ‘You’d better cut along. Your parents will be worried.’
Nash goes with them to the door. Pete’s chatty now, relaxed.
‘Not them. They’ll be down the Wheatsheaf. Won’t even know so long as I’m home by half past.’
He grins at Nash and dashes off into the dark. Alf hesitates at the top of the steps.
‘Was there something else?’ Nash asks.
‘Not exactly.’
‘I notice you didn’t make any promises.’
‘It’s not that.’ Alf takes a dog-end out of his pocket, lights it with a match swiped against the brickwork beside the door. ‘I won’t go butting in, I’m not that daft. And I hope you’ll go careful yourself, sir. That Mingers is a nasty bit of work.’
‘I appreciate your concern. But somehow I don’t think that’s what’s on your mind.’
‘Shook me up a bit, that picture. Made me think.’
‘You do know something.’ Nash makes it a statement, not a question.
The spark of the cigarette glows fiercely as Alf takes a drag on the dog-end.
‘You know what it’s like. It don’t do to jump in.’
‘We’re talking about murder, Alf. If you think you know something, you must tell someone. If you won’t talk to me, you should go to the police.’
The boy spits a fragment of tobacco into the dark. ‘I’d tell you, sir, if I reckoned there was anything to tell. I made Pete come and see you, didn’t I?’
Nash has to concede that much. He can’t force the boy, but he remembers what Jo said about the Alsatian in the scrapyard.
‘Look, I’m pretty certain there’s somebody out there who’s got a lot to lose if we can bring the girl’s death home to them. If you go meddling and get too close, don’t imagine they won’t be prepared to hurt you too. There’s no telling what they might do if they think you’re a danger to them.’
‘I get it, Mr Nash, sir. I do, really. But, well, careless talk, you know. It’s not right to go tittle-tattling like a girl.’
‘Alf . . .’ Nash reaches out but the boy’s gone, sliding away into the dark like the expert poacher he’s reputed to be. ‘Damn.’
18
20th April
SINCE THE CALL OF THE abbey bells has been silenced, Sunday mornings seem like any other. Though Nash is not a churchgoer, he misses them. In their absence, it’s the quietness of the streets which marks the day as different from the rest of the working week.
It’s early when he lets himself out of the side gate. Barely half past seven, but he’s impatient to check the information Pete and Alf gave him last night. His first impulse is to go alone, to make a find of his own. Jo’s had it all her own way with the ticket and the suitcase, even meeting Frank. But it would be at cost to the relationship between his assistant and himself, and their working partnership, the trust between them, is already stretched uncomfortably thin.
That reckless night in London’s to blame. He should have known better. He discovered long ago there’s no such thing as no strings in human relationships. There’s always a bill to pay. If it’s not cash for services rendered, then it’s emotional entanglement. And he’s chosen the road he’d rather travel. The trenches in France taught him all the lessons he ever needed to know about detachment, maimed more than his face. He can’t subscribe to the belief that love will conquer all. The truth is, it makes you vulnerable so the ripples of destruction spread wider. For every son or husband or father killed, how many more deaths in the hearts of families who’d loved them? How much more pain? He won’t risk that terrible responsibility for someone else’s happiness.
Not that he flatters himself that Jo Lester harbours any tenderness for him because of one shared night. If she had, she’d never have turned up on his doorstep demanding a job. He knows he should have turned her down. A strand, insubstantial as cobweb, had tugged at his sense that he owed her something.
The feeling remains. Strand for strand, cobweb is stronger than steel.
He should find Jo. Tell her what Pete told him. Take her with him to investigate Ruth Taylor’s reputed hideout. Weave another gossamer strand.
He should go alone.
Instead, he picks up a paper from the newsagent, drops in at the tea room for whatever they can offer by way of breakfast. He’ll do the crossword if he can, make up his mind after that.
*
I’m in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, when there’s a knock at the front door. Dot looks up from her task.
‘D’you mind answering that?’ she says.
She’s plucking pigeons, and there are feathers light as thistledown all over the sack she’s using as an apron. If she gets up, they’ll fly everywhere.
‘Of course.’
I wipe my hands, make my way into the hall. The caller must be a stranger. No one who knows Dot uses the front door. The door’s bolted top and bottom, and the bolts are stiff.
I call out, ‘Just coming, hang on,’ but there’s no response.
The bottom bolt yields suddenly, catches my thumb. Cursing, I drag the door open.
Bram Nash. I’m amazed. What’s he doing here?
He tips his hat. I’m instantly hot with guilt, thinking about the irregularities of what I’ve done in his name in the last day or so. Then I notice how uncomfortable he looks. Perhaps he’s not here to tell me off.
‘Is it me you want?’ I ask him. ‘Or did you come to see Alf or Dot?’
‘No, it’s you. If it’s not inconvenient.’
‘Will you come in?’
He shakes his head. ‘Can you come out? It’s about Ruth. There’s something I need to show you.’
I glance down at myself. I’m in my oldest clothes. My slacks and blouse have seen better days, and Romsey’s not the sort of place which takes kindly to women in trousers, especially on a Sunday. With nothing on my feet and no make-up on my face, my hair tied up factory-style in a faded old scarf, I’m not fit to be seen.
‘I’ll have to get changed,’ I say, though he can probably see that for himself. ‘Will you come in and wait?’
‘Show Mr Nash into the parlour!’ Dot shouts, making it clear she’s been listening.
‘No need,’ Nash says. ‘You can come as you are. Where we’re going, no one will see you.’
‘I’ll put on some shoes.’
Back in the kitchen, I apologi
se to Dot for leaving her in the lurch. I can’t tell her where I’m going or how long I’ll be, because I don’t know.
She waves me away. ‘Just as long as you don’t let him inside this kitchen.’
Shoes on, gas mask case over my shoulder, I let myself out of the front door where Nash is waiting. He holds the gate open for me, but as soon as we’re in the street, he strides off without a word. He’s going so fast I’m soon trailing behind, torn between feeling ridiculous and affronted.
*
‘Wait for me!’
‘Got to keep up, Josy!’ Mike calls back, the only one with any sense of responsibility towards me, and that only because we’re family.
The boys are in front, tearing along the towpath Indian file. The way’s overgrown, and as they rush through, the brambles whip back to catch me on the rebound, slashing at my arms and face. Before long we’re in the woods, and though I can hear the boys crashing through the trees, I can’t see them any more. Soon, I can’t hear them either.
I don’t like it. I have nightmares about being lost in these woods. Parts of it are all right, where the little trees let in the light and bluebells grow and bees buzz and butterflies bask in the sunlight. But I don’t like it where the trees grow tangled together, dark twisty paths threading between them. There are roots that seem to heave up deliberately to trip you, and the gnarly old branches reach down to scrabble and tap.
My aunts Lizzie and Mags tell stories about the goblins who live in here, how they go hunting to catch little girls so they can fatten them up to eat for tea. Once, they showed me the leftover bones. I don’t really believe in goblins any more. Not now I’m eight. But I’m still scared. The birds don’t sing in this part of the wood, and now the boys have disappeared it’s so quiet all I can hear is my own jerky breathing.
I stand still, not sure which way to go. I can’t remember how to get home. If they’ve left me here, I’m lost. But I know I mustn’t panic. It’s my first time out with the gang, and they won’t let me stay if I’m a cry baby.
A voice calls from somewhere up ahead. It’s Jem, I think, or it might be Billy.
‘Finders, seekers! You first, Josy. You’re It.’
‘Don’t want to be It.’
The Unexpected Return of Josephine Fox Page 14