by Jan Toms
With an overdeveloped sense of duty and a strong competitive streak, Charity had then taken it upon herself to resign from her job and come home to stay. She had heard that a managerial vacancy at the local branch of M&S was expected to come up shortly, and by then she hoped to have Alan settled so that she could go out and leave him for a few hours each day. The fact that he in turn regularly went out to work seemed to have bypassed her.
Alan was an easygoing man, unambitious, as evidenced by his failure to rise above the level of constable, but it suited him. Country stations, rural constabularies, he had been content with sorting out petty misdemeanours, still favouring an avuncular telling off or an occasional clip around the ear until that had been well and truly forbidden. Now fifty-eight, retirement indeed beckoned, but he had not visualised spending it with Charity.
Charity of course was a nice girl, but she would interfere. His house had been completely rearranged in line with some obscure M&S policy on storage and stacking, and she had a trying habit of coming up with solutions to the occasional crimes that he was handling. They were nothing serious – a break-in, a taking away without consent – but immediately Charity was on the case. Often he was tired when he came home and didn’t really relish explaining to her how it was illegal to electrify a doorbell or fix the brakes of a potential stolen car, even to catch a criminal.
Alan washed his hands and went into the living-cum-dining room to await tonight’s surprise feast. The Clarion was on the arm of his chair and he picked it up. He was immediately drawn to the main feature.
Mystery Man Identified. It went on to reveal that the unidentified man on whom local poet Vincent Green had accidentally landed – and killed outright – was none other than the notorious gangster Tommy ‘Gruesome’ Hewson, wanted for torture, murder and robbery. Hewson had been active mainly in south London and latterly along the south coast. What he had been doing on their Island was a mystery. He had built up a reputation as a vicious killer and his trademark had become his sidekick, a small white poodle. In view of evidence of its presence at various grisly crime scenes, the dog had been dubbed the Angel of Death by the press. A picture of Gruesome, who had served seven years for armed robbery, was featured centre page. The RSPCA had declined to have the dog’s mug shot splashed across the papers.
Alan put the Clarion aside and hoped that Gruesome being in the area did not indicate that a local crime wave was about to hit. He had fourteen months left to serve and he had no desire to spend it dodging the big boys.
Charity came in and honed in on the headline. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange,’ she said, ‘That a known killer should be accidentally wiped out by someone falling on him?’
‘No. It was an accident.’
She shook her head and sat down in the other armchair. ‘I don’t think so, Dad. Perhaps somebody arranged for this Hewson to be bumped off?’
Alan shook his head again. ‘You haven’t met Victor Green,’ he said. Someone more law-abiding would be difficult to imagine.
‘I thought his name was Vincent?’
‘That’s the press for you, always getting things wrong.’
Victor was also scanning the Clarion and he didn’t like what he saw. The thought of sharing his house with the notorious Angel of Death gave him second thoughts about offering the little poodle a home, but then, thinking of Fluffy’s mewling bark and trembling demeanour, he couldn’t believe it was possible that he might be vicious. More likely Fluffy had been a victim of Gruesome’s domestic violence, forced to defend himself by obeying his owner’s evil commands: ‘Kill Fluffy!’ – only he didn’t think that Gruesome would have called him that. He had probably given him a horrible name like Bullseye or Gnasher. Thus reassured, he determined to go to the Dogs’ Home on Saturday and make his case.
He spent the remaining evenings hunting out the escape routes that Fluffy might unearth along the hedge. Victor had heard about people keeping dangerous dogs and failing to keep them under control. He resolved to buy a muzzle and a ‘Beware of the Dog’ sign to nail to the gate. He must ensure that he became a responsible owner.
On Saturday he presented himself at the Dogs’ Home and filled in the application form. ‘I came in before,’ he said, to make sure he was regarded as first in the queue. ‘I have fenced in the garden and I am ready for inspection, now if you wish?’ By this time Fluffy had been at the Dogs’ Home for seven days and no one had come forward to claim him.
The man taking down the details laid his pen aside. ‘No need for that, Sir. Someone will pop along during the week just to make sure that everything is OK. If you would like to follow me we can go and fetch him.’
‘Now?’ Victor felt his heart rate increase with excitement as he followed the warden out to the kennels. As soon as he set eyes on Fluffy, any doubts that he had quickly vanished. Here was the sweetest little abandoned dog and now he was to be his. Fluffy seemed to remember him and wagged his tail, emitting his falsetto squeak. The final details were completed, and to his amazement and delight Victor found himself standing outside, waiting at the bus stop to take his new companion home.
It was soon clear that they suited each other. Victor found a piece of foam rubber and a particularly soft blanket and fashioned a dog’s bed near to the radiator, not that it was on at the moment but come the winter he would need somewhere cosy. Rather disconcertingly, Fluffy peed against one of the kitchen chairs then went off to explore the rest of the cottage. Victor thought that perhaps he should buy a book on dog psychology. He knew that bed-wetting was a symptom of anxiety in children so the same probably applied to dogs. Once he was settled, hopefully the little accidents would cease.
That afternoon they went for two short walks, just to familiarise the poodle with his new neighbourhood. In the unlikely event that he got out, Victor wanted to be sure that he knew his way home. In Prince Regent Street they stopped at the pet shop and got a new collar and lead, and a nametag to be engraved with Fluffy’s name and Victor’s telephone number. Stocked up with pouches and biscuits and treats, the two went home and settled down to get to know each other.
Her father was working on Saturday and Charity was bored. As she was lining the rubbish bin with an old copy of the Clarion, she read again the story of Gruesome Hewson’s bizarre death. Just recently she had overdosed on crime novels and this seemed to be just the sort of thing that a writer might have woven into one of his plots.
Through the window the sun enveloped the world in tempting warmth, challenging her to go for a walk. With nothing else to do, she decided to take the opportunity to patrol the area where Vincent – or rather Victor – Green lived. The idea of meeting a poet appealed to her. Immediately she thought of those portraits of Lord Byron, black wavy hair, a passionate mouth. She felt disturbingly restless. The Clarion had thoughtfully printed his address so she had no trouble in finding it. No matter what her father said, she was certain that there was more to Gruesome Hewson’s death than an accident.
She hung around for a while then set herself a route to patrol so that hopefully she would get a glimpse of the now famous poet. Her father was adamant that what had happened to Gruesome was an accident but just in case it wasn’t, it was up to her to prove it.
Just as she was having doubts, her patience was rewarded. On the third time she passed the house she saw Victor and a small white dog coming out of the gate. Charity felt instantly disappointed. The man looked light years away from either a poet or an enforcer. He was short and probably weighed no more than nine stone. His nondescript hair was parted on the side and a lock hung limply onto his forehead. At best his clothes could be described as old-fashioned. All in all he was not an inspiring specimen. Still, looks could be deceptive and Charity really had nothing better to do.
Straightening her back she followed them down the road, and when the dog stopped to investigate some interesting smell, she walked up to them and said, ‘What a sweet little dog.’
Victor jumped and wondered whether he should warn h
er to be careful. Perhaps he should have muzzled Fluffy in case he was conditioned to attack any stranger who approached him? Before he could say anything, however, the woman had bent down and was stroking the poodle’s curls. Fluffy responded by rolling over and exposing a pink stomach.
‘He’s so sweet!’ Charity stood up and looked at Victor. He looked embarrassed and his cheeks began to glow with the sort of blush that would have done credit to a Victorian virgin. Undeterred, Charity ploughed on.
‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
‘Er – Fluffy. I got him from the RSPCA. He – he was orphaned.’ He supposed that was an accurate description of Fluffy’s status.
Charity was remembering the article in the Clarion and she looked anew at what she suddenly wondered might be the Angel of Death, then decided that that would be too much of a coincidence. Determined to see the case through, however, she fell into step beside Victor.
‘I’m just out for a walk,’ she announced. ‘I’ve only moved here recently and I don’t know anyone really.’
When he didn’t respond, she added, ‘I always think a walk is so much nicer if you have a dog, don’t you?’
Victor nodded, unaccountably tongue-tied. His new companion was determined to pursue the conversation. She said, ‘I’m not working at the moment so I have plenty of free time.’
‘Oh.’
‘I might look around and see if anyone would like their dog walked.’
Victor jolted inwardly at the turn events were taking. Wasn’t this just what he was looking for, someone to come in when he was at work – someone to keep Fluffy company, take him for a stroll and generally see that he was well?
‘I – I’ve got a few days off,’ he volunteered, ‘but then I’ve got to go back to work so I will have to find someone to …’
They looked at each other. ‘If I can help at all,’ Charity volunteered and gave him her phone number.
After finishing work at the police station, Alan called in to see Edna Fairgrove. He had only met Edna a few months ago, when she had come into the station to report that a man was sleeping rough in the bus shelter opposite her house.
‘I don’t want to get him into trouble,’ she started, ‘but it does seem a shame that he should be there. Perhaps there is a hostel that he could go to?’ After a moment she added, ‘And to be honest, I suppose there is a possibility that he will break into one of the houses in search of food.’
Alan agreed that it was indeed possible and said that he would look into it. Edna had seemed in no hurry to leave. When Alan had written down her details, she said, ‘To tell the truth, I’m a bit nervous these days. My husband died six months ago and I can’t get used to being on my own.’
‘I know exactly how you feel,’ Alan found himself saying. ‘I lost my wife recently too.’
Edna Fairgrove was a comfortable looking lady, well covered but not fat, neat and tidy but not tarted up. Alan thought that she looked very nice.
‘I’m just going off duty now,’ he said, ‘but I could perhaps escort you home?’
Edna’s shoulders wriggled in a way that reminded him of a chicken that, after preening itself, ruffles its feathers. In fact, she reminded him of a hen altogether, soft and downy with bright amber eyes.
Alan refused Edna’s invitation to come in for a cup of tea, but when he happened to bump into her in Sainsbury’s a couple of weeks later, they both stopped for a cup of coffee before going their separate ways.
‘I was wondering,’ said Edna, ‘if you might like to come round for a bite to eat sometime. Please don’t misunderstand. It’s just that I really miss having someone to cook for and you might be missing your wife’s dinners?’
Her eyes were without guile. Alan felt that this was perfectly proper and a week later he came to Sunday lunch. It was lovely. The food was delicious. Edna’s house was cosy but not too tidy, so he didn’t have to worry about taking off his shoes at the door or perhaps dropping the odd crumb. While he was there, he went out into the garden and fixed the latch to the back gate for her.
‘It was nothing,’ he said in response to her thanks. ‘Just think of it as payment for such a lovely meal.’
Over the weeks they had settled into a gentle pattern of occasional meetings. Alan did not feel pressurised in any way. They would sometimes sit in companionable silence in her front room, sometimes watch a comedy programme on TV or talk about the latest news. Sadly, this happy little routine had come to a halt with Charity’s arrival.
On the second occasion that he told Charity he was going out to have a meal with a friend, she asked, ‘Is this a woman?’
‘As a matter of fact, it is. She’s a widow. We’ve been having the occasional meal together.’
Charity was immediately bristling with disapproval. ‘I don’t know what Mum would think,’ she said. Alan couldn’t think of an appropriate reply that didn’t suggest he had abandoned Margaret’s memory. When he didn’t answer, Charity added, ‘Anyway, there’s no need for anyone else to cook for you now, I’m here.’ Reluctantly the Sunday dinners and mid-week roasts with Edna were abandoned.
That evening Charity had gone to a talk at the village hall about the Duke of Wellington, so it was Alan’s chance to stay out without causing an atmosphere.
He knocked at the door and, after a few moments, Edna answered. She looked both surprised and flustered by his unexpected visit.
‘Oh, Alan. I’m – please come in. I’ve got a friend here at the moment.’
‘Oh no, I don’t want to disturb you. I just thought I’d pop by and say hello.’
From the front door he could see along the passageway to the kitchen, and there at the kitchen table was a man. He was sitting in the place where Alan had until recently enjoyed Edna’s meals and a wave of loss and disappointment filled him.
‘As long as you are OK,’ he said, backing away.
‘Please, do come on in.’
‘No, really. It was just …’ Somehow he made his retreat and went home. At that moment, he realised just how much his little outings with Edna had meant to him, and now it seemed that there was someone else. Miserably, he thought that if only Charity hadn’t come back then his peaceful trips with Edna would have continued, but then the guilt overcame him. His daughter had made a huge sacrifice to come and look after him. He should be grateful. The only problem was, he wasn’t.
SIX
A queue shuffled its way slowly beneath the shadow of the towering brick wall that surrounded Parkhurst Prison. It looked at least twenty feet high, the top overhung on both sides, making it madness for anyone inside or out to even think of scaling it. On the inner side, spotlights as brilliant as the midday sun picked out every corner. The nearest neighbours some half a mile away complained about what they called light pollution, while across the road, the new mothers in the maternity unit of St Mary’s Hospital longed to go home, then thought themselves lucky that their incarceration was of such short duration.
None of this interested Roger Rodriguez, generally known as Dodge, as he edged his way forward with the queue. It was raining, a soft drizzle that soaked into his fleece and insinuated its way inside his collar. The weather reflected his general mood for he felt abandoned, cast adrift to run the family affairs about which he knew nothing. Today was Thursday and he clutched in his hand a disintegrating piece of paper, a pass that allowed him one hour’s visit with his elder brother Reginald, who was serving a ten-year sentence for fraud.
Dodge recognised the couple in front of him in the queue as regular prison visitors, not family or friends but professional do-gooders who made it their business to inflict themselves on the poor sods who had no one on the outside of their own. They were discussing something they had seen on the telly the night before. Dodge studied their backs, a middle-aged man and woman, both wearing tweedy clothes, confident of their place in law-abiding society. He thought that being visited by one of them must be like a punishment in itself. If he had his way he’d ban the lot of them.
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br /> They had reached the gate and the couple both showed their passes to the guard. He nodded at them, gave them a cursory running over with his metal detector thing and they stepped inside. Stage one. Dodge was next. The guard, a stocky man who looked as if a JCB wouldn’t budge him, did not speak but took his pass with an expression that implied it was bound to be counterfeit. He looked Dodge over as if trying to identify him, even though there was nothing on the document to say what he looked like. The metal detector then roamed over his body. Was it his imagination or did the bloke deliberately poke it into his crotch? Without a word, just a single nod of his head, he gave Dodge permission to step over the threshold.
Inside there was more. Two dogs were waiting, hoping to find the merest hint of drugs. One of them began to bark and wag his tail, emitting an excited Eureka of discovery, and the man in front of the middle-aged couple was hauled out of the line. The professional visitors dutifully held up their arms while they were frisked, again a token gesture, and replied ‘No’ when asked whether they were bringing in anything illegal. This included things as various as arms and drugs, and any form of food and drink. ‘I could kill for one of Ma’s bacon sarnies’; that was one of Reggie’s habitual gripes.
A woman officer frisked Dodge and he hated that. It made him shiver when a woman touched him and his face burned as her hand hovered close to his private parts, but at last it was over and he was allowed to go forward, into the vast room where an hour’s visiting was permitted.
Tables were spread out as if for a whist drive, with a chair on each side. The men expecting visitors were already seated, one at each table. Dodge saw Reggie immediately in the second row. He was a handsome man, Reggie, with his father’s Mediterranean good looks, dark hair and liquid eyes. As a child, Dodge had adored him. Experience had taught him, however, that Reggie was of uncertain temper and could not be relied upon to be kind. He waved, then hastily put his hand down again. A screw stood near to his brother. Throughout the visit the warders kept up a patrol, but Dodge had noticed before that they always placed themselves nearest to the most important cons – and he knew that Reggie was important.