Tommy was posted to a porridge loving place, and me to this bleak dump, I'm not allowed to say where, but they eat clangers as well as drop them.
Well they say the war will end soon, Dad. When I get out, I shall do something about this dirty business. I've written to Tommy because I know he feels the same way. Pearce made us into liars, and the longer it goes on, the harder it will be to undo. I know we'll be in big trouble for not speaking up sooner, but you see dad, I asked myself what you would do, and that's why I will face up to whatever they throw at me.
*
'Are you crying, Billy?' his mother asked. 'What's that you're reading?'
'No – I – err - I was just thinking what a great day, Mam,' Billy croaked, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and stuffing the Reverend's pages into his shirtfront.
Mrs Perks leaned over and hugged him fondly. 'Ah bless him,' she cooed. 'I'm glad you had such a good day. At least you can stay awake for it. That's more than can be said for him,' she added sourly, eyeing Billy's father, snoozing peacefully.
Billy turned to the window. He could see little but his own reflection. It was black outside and the train was speeding along, streaking the windows with water and soot. It thundered past odd lights and bells, leaving traces of them on his senses like fading dreams. The bogies clattered rhythmically beneath his feet, chanting secret words that had no voice except inside his head. He closed his eyes and leaned on his mother's shoulder, loving her perfume.
Pearce killed Annabel,
Pearce's the one.
Pearce shot Tommy.
Find Pearce's gun.
Pearce stole the medal.
Pearce is a rat.
Tramp has the medal?
Cops have my hat.
………
CHAPTER NINETEEN
'Are you sure you're old enough for potted meat on toast?' Doctor Hadfield asked earnestly. 'I didn't discover it until my second year at Oxford.' Kicking off his shoes, he grinned and chuckled to himself.
'It's just potted meat - what's to discover?' Billy said, with a pitying frown.
'Speaking of discovery, anything fascinating in the Dome of Discovery?'
'No.'
Hadfield sat bolt upright in his sagging armchair and shot Billy an incredulous scowl. 'D'yer mean to say the Government spent eleven million quid of our hard earned taxes on a Dome of Discovery that can't even excite your curiosity a tiny jot?'
'I don't know what you're on about,' Billy said dismissively.
The doctor cut the last slice of toast in half to share with him. Billy accepted his half, and began loading potted meat.
'Surely there's something about it you can tell me. I mean, should I go? Is it worth the trip? Would a certain female of our mutual acquaintance appreciate me making such a financial sacrifice if I were to take her?'
'There's the Skylon,' Billy replied phlegmatically.
'What's that?'
'Nobody knows.' Billy delicately picked crumbs from his tank top. 'The Dome is massive. It's the biggest in the world. There's allsorts you can do in it.'
'Such as?'
'You can steer the radio telescope and bounce signals off the moon.'
'Wow, what's that like?'
'I don't know. There was a long queue. We had to miss it.'
'Huh, pity.'
'There were special sticks of festival rock.'
'Excellent – can I see some?'
'We didn't get any. There was a long queue.' He looked round for more bread to toast. 'You could get special soap with the festival embossed on it.'
'But the queue, I suppose - eh?' Hadfield queried, eyebrows arching theatrically.
'Yeah, we didn't wait.'
'It's beginning to sound as if the excitement would be too much for me,' Hadfield said, pushing the breadboard across the table with a sock covered big toe. 'Anyway, just like you, I too also don't have either festival rock, or soap, and have never steered the radio telescope. Unlike you however, I've achieved all of this without spending hours on a train to London, so I reckon that's one up for me.'
'Did you get my Post Mortem results yet?'
'Sorry, I didn't know you'd died, old thing.'
Billy giggled. 'Come on, stop messing about - my PM results - that's why I came.'
'Oooh PM results,' Hadfield cried, 'Soon slipped into the old police jargon eh?'
Billy felt his face colour and pretended to concentrate on the toasting.
'Don't worry, I checked it out for you. There was nothing about Tommy's death to suggest it was anything but a simple fall. Death by drowning. It doesn't look at all suspicious. If I'd done the post mortem myself I would have come to precisely the same conclusion.'
Disappointment briefly marred Billy's face, until smoke from the grill made him drop everything to rescue burning toast. 'I know I'm right,' he said, as if trying to convince himself. 'I'm sure he was threatened with a gun, and frightened, so that he fell backwards down that hole. And I think that if he'd not fallen, he would have been shot. It was a lucky accident for the killer, and it's hidden a murder all these years.'
'I know that you really care, Billy,' said the doctor. 'And believe me, I checked everything I could think of. I even talked it over with the "arch tormentor" himself. He remembers it very well. He was almost there when it happened.'
'Doctor Greenhow?'
'Yes, he was watching some ducks or vultures, or something. He claims he's a bit of an ornithologist.'
Billy stared blankly.
'Well he was there. He remembers seeing Pearce there too. The police took a statement from him. Maybe you should have a little chat with him. He quite likes you, you know. He's always asking me how you're doing.'
Billy glowered. 'I've told him I stopped doing it. Why doesn't he believe me?'
'Because it's a bare faced fib, old lad, and everybody knows it.' The doctor helped himself to blackened toast and spread the last of the potted meat on it. 'Shares?'
Billy accepted the offer and watched grumpily as Hadfield jokily pretended to make much of measuring the toast before cutting it in half.
'A certain Miss Sparkes and I were walking down Rivelin yesterday,' he said casually. 'We saw the gendarmes crawling all over that old mill of yours …'
Billy dropped his toast and leapt up suddenly. 'I knew it,' he cried. 'They're looking for a bullet.' He ran out of the house leaving the doctor cheerfully bemused.
'Yep, definitely need to buff up the old social skills,' he said, reaching for Billy's untouched toast and potted meat.
*
Kick Morley jinked to one side and slipped behind Billy, pushing him towards the surgery door. Billy twisted trying to turn on him. 'Why don't you? Why is it always me first?'
Kick was about to make his excuses when they heard the old doctor shouting at them from the coach house. 'Surgery is closed. It's Sunday! Am I expected to be at your beck and call twenty-fours hours a day and weekends too?' They turned to find him striding angrily toward them. He had his sleeves rolled up and a large screwdriver in one hand. 'When the devil am I supposed to get a break?' He stopped suddenly and peered as if through fog. 'Goodness, is that Billy? Oh, welcome, Old Stick, good to see you. Who's he?'
'Michael Morley, sir. My friend.'
'Best friend,' corrected Kick, feeling his credentials warranted greater emphasis.
'The doors keep jamming. I can't get them to close properly. One of you can climb up and give the screws a turn or two. That should do it. Come along, step lively - this way.'
Billy followed him back to the coach-house. He was handed the screwdriver and ushered to a stepladder. 'We – err – we're sorry to disturb you, sir, but Doctor Hadfield said you wanted to speak to me.'
'Hum, did I? Can't recall why.'
Billy began climbing the stepladder. 'He said you were a witness, five years ago, when Tommy Loveday was killed.'
'Oh did he really? Well he should know better than to gossip.' The doctor peered up and pointed to th
e offending hinge. 'Tighten that one first,' he instructed. 'I assure you I was certainly not a witness – at least, not in any legal sense of the word. The police took my statement, but didn't use it. But yes, I suppose it does appear that I was in the area at the time. However, I was not witness to anything, as the police will happily confirm.'
'Doctor Hadfield seemed to think you'd seen Mr Pearce crossing the river.'
'Really! Well he should keep his thoughts to himself. I can see I will need to have a word with that young man.'
'Did you?'
'As a matter of fact I did. The damn fool spoiled everything for me. I was watching a kingfisher's nest. It came out of its hole, flew to a twig over the water, dived, caught a fish and took it back to its hole. Absolutely fascinating. Few people ever see that you know. It sticks in my mind - a wonderful sight. I watched it for a while until that idiot Pearce blundered across the river and scared it away.'
'Did he come out of the mill and then cross the river?'
'Turn the damn thing, don't just wave the screwdriver at it. You'll never tighten it like that,' Greenhow grumbled.
'Did he come out of the mill?' Billy persisted.
'I think so. I don't know - I wasn't watching him. I was watching the kingfisher. As far as I can recall he went both ways - over and back again. The idiot had lost his shoe you see.'
'Was this in the police report?'
'No, of course not. I already told you, they didn't need me. They had the water bailiff and some gardener chappies as witnesses.'
The old doctor was becoming more bossy and grizzly. He paced about impatiently, pointing and grumbling, angrily picking up tools and dropping them again. Kick's patience with the old grouch quickly wore out. He told him he had to go to football practice. Billy seized on the moment to escape too.
While he had been struggling with the doctor's garage door, Billy had decided to check on what the police had been doing at the old mill. He also wanted to pay another visit to the old soldier, who had pulled him out of the river just a week earlier. He was troubled by the doctor's story. In particular, he wanted to check something he had said about kingfishers, and was guessing that the old man would be the perfect authority.
*
It was a cool day under a leaden sky. There was not a breath of wind in Rivelin Valley and the birdsong in the great limes echoed from tree to glorious tree. The river was full and fast, bubbling noisily over the smooth rocks. Beyond the millpond, on the opposite bank, a few men were busy in their allotments, backs bent, faces close to their planting.
At the old Walkley Bank Tilt, there were no obvious indications on its grey exterior that the police had been there just a few days before. Taking a good look round to ensure old Sutcliffe was not about, Billy scroamed under the barbed wire into the derelict building.
Once inside the damp silence, everything seemed just as it had been the last time he'd been there. He moved slowly round the old machines, and scanned the walls and floor, ears alert to new sounds. He could see nothing new or unusual. Disappointed, he was about to leave when he spotted a postcard-sized label, pinned to the furthest wall. Around it, was drawn a circle with yellow chalk.
The sudden, noisy fluttering of a pair of pigeons in the rafters made his heart stop. Sutcliffe was somewhere. Sweat popped out on his brow. He felt weak and his hands trembled. Hiding behind an old forge bellows he listened for sounds of Sutcliffe's approach. He waited for what seemed ages, but heard nothing more. Eventually, plucking up courage, he peered through holes in the rotting leather bellows to the doorway where he had last seen Sutcliffe. There was nobody there. The birds fluttered again and flew off through a window, leaving a few downy feathers to float slowly to the ground.
Releasing a sigh he came out of hiding and resumed his investigation, promising himself fervently, that he would get this bit of detective work finished quickly and get out of there.
Between him, and the label on the wall, was the sump hole that he had fallen down on his last visit. He gave it a wide berth, and feeling increasingly excited, ran to the wall to read the label. Apart from the word, ballistics, nothing else written there made sense to him; just a few numbers and some squiggles, which he took to be the signatures of the investigating officers.
Again cautiously skirting the hole in the floor, he walked back to where he had been standing when he'd spotted the label. 'The killer could have stood right here,' he said aloud, raising his arm as if to shoot a pistol at the height of a man's chest. The trajectory lined up exactly with the label on the wall.
This was it. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine. He imagined the killer standing where he stood. Tommy Loveday would have been just a few yards away. There was no way he could miss from that distance, unless Tommy had vanished down the sump hole, to escape, or because he fell. Maybe that was it. Maybe Tommy could see no way out and had dived backwards down the hole, or maybe he had just blindly fallen, because he was backing away from the gun.
Gripped by sadness for a man he had never met, he left the old tilt, feeling as if he had just witnessed Tommy Loveday's murder. It was as if Tommy had communicated with him across the chasm of death. Billy muttered a prayer, promising the dead man that he would do everything in his power to find his killer, just as he had promised to find Annabel's.
Outside he paused and looked back at the ruined mill. He thought of Tommy, happily watching his little dog yapping and sniffing excitedly around the old stones. It made him feel even more determined to find out what had happened.
The stepping-stones across the river were old grindstones worn down from their original six feet diameter to little more than twelve inches. Set about a foot apart, they were easy to use, and provided safe access to the other side. It was difficult to imagine how anyone could fall in, except perhaps the odd drunk from the nearby Hollybush Inn.
Lance Corporal Francis Simmons was scattering blood, fish and bone along a row of infant plants. Billy crossed over to the garden allotments to talk to him, noting on his way, how every stepping-stone felt soundly bedded. The fact that not one rantied underfoot, strengthened his conviction that Pearce's fall had definitely been deliberate theatre, rather than an unfortunate accident.
The old man's face lit up when he saw Billy. 'Ayup sithee, look who's here, little Mester Questions. Are tha alreight mi owd?'
'Hello Mr Simmons. Aye, I'm champion thank you. Can I talk to thee a bit? I was wondering if you've had any visitors lately?'
'Tha knows damn well I have, lad,' he said, laughing softly, and dusting his palms on his trousers, led Billy to his shed, chattering all the time. 'Come on in - we'll have a mashing.'
Inside he commenced his tea making ritual, without pausing for breath. 'It were him, that big un – whassiz-name? Him who who lost his little girl? Tragic that were. He came with a young constable – spotty kid. He were here again yesterday an' all. Whadda they call 'im? Burke. Built like a brick shit house he is. He comes asking me if I'd heard a shot. I think he were just showing off for the young bloke. I told 'im "Tha takes thee time dunt tha? It were five years sin' that." I told him, "Tha goes to him next door who's as deaf as a spanner and as blind as a Chelsea boot, but tha never comes to me until five years later".'
'But you did tell him though?' asked Billy, worried that the old man might have succumbed to injured pride and withheld his information.
'Of course I did. Then he says, were it a farmer shooting a rabbit?'
'I says no, it weren't a rifle, nor a shotgun. It were a pistol shot.'
'Do you ever watch kingfishers round here?' Billy asked, without explanation.
'Kingfishers? Tha needs to be up at Roscoe mill to see them, or down stream at Mousehole Forge. I've never seen none just here.'
'An ornithologist would know that wouldn't he?'
'By gum, that's a ten-bob word. Does tha mean a bird watcher?'
'I looked it up at the library. It means somebody who knows a lot about birds,' Billy explained.
> 'Tha don't say. Well he'd know then wouldn't he? But whaddya talking about kingfishers for?'
'Somebody told me he was watching kingfishers going in and out of their nest hole with fish they'd caught.'
'Aye well that'd be when they're feeding their young uns. They can have a lot of chicks you know kingfishers, eight at a time. It's a lot of work, when they've to dive in and catch 'em all.'
'This was October, five years ago, when that shot was fired.'
'There might have been some nesting here then, I can't swear to it, but they wouldn't have been feeding young-uns.'
'Why not?'
'Not in October! May, June, July time, or even April, if it's a warm year. But it's all over by October. The young-uns have fledged and flown off by then. The nest hole would be like a cesspit. The parent birds would abandon it. Whoever said they watched 'em feeding, is lying to you – or he's got his dates wrong.'
He suddenly froze with a new thought, and spun round to face Billy, his old eyes alight with promise. 'Here, I know what!' he cried, and moved purposefully to rummage inside an old army gas mask bag, hanging with his coat behind the shed door. Billy watched, wondering what miracle of evidence he was about to reveal. The old man pulled out a tin box, about the size of a house brick. It had a hinged lid and was decorated with pictures of a seaside resort. Billy gaped in awe, as Mr Simmons opened it and set it before him. Inside were half a dozen fairy cakes. 'We can have 'em wi' us tea.'
*
That evening as Billy laboured wearily up Rivelin Street, a four thousand year old way out of the deep valley, his legs felt like lead. He wished he had one of the generations of pack ponies that had racked up and down the ancient road to carry him home. Behind him, the lime trees lining the valley road gently swayed their great heads as a slight breeze blew in from the High Peak moors. The sky was on the move too; a few small patches of blue were opening up in the west. There was not yet enough blue to make a sailor a pair of bellbottoms, as his mother would say, but the Man's Head rock was bathed in bright evening sunlight, putting a smile on its craggy face as it looked out over Rivelin.
Tuppenny Hat Detective Page 19