He glanced across at his old friend. Mickey was dozing for real now. He always did have the capacity to sleep anywhere, Henry thought.
He closed his book. So that was how we met, Malina, he told her – though she was now miles away and had probably forgotten the question.
Had they done it, these two young people? Had they committed murder in revenge for the death of a father they supposedly hated? He didn’t see it as beyond the realms of possibility but he really couldn’t see the motive, especially not after all this time. Though sometimes things festered and broke out when least expected. He thought about what the constable at Otterham Creek had said about gypsies being prone to vendettas and vengeance, and while he acknowledged that that was sometimes true, this pair seemed to have removed themselves so completely from their past, looking at new ways of living, that it seemed less likely, somehow.
Mickey had woken and was now staring at him. ‘Penny for them.’
‘What has Max Peterson to do with any of this?’
‘Well, that is a good question. Billy Crane and Tommy we know were there, that night when the father was killed, or at least we know they were sent to collect the family and take them away. There’s nothing in Tommy Boswell’s record or history that suggests he has the stomach for murder and Bailey, whatever else he might be, is a good judge of men’s capabilities and capacities. He channels the killers into killing and channels those that aren’t up to it into other deeds. He has a use for everyone and he’s good at figuring out that use.’
‘And Max Peterson? Bailey does not appear to have had a use for him. True, he was part of that crowd, he and Billy Crane were friends from childhood – some would say more than friends. Bailey seems to have tolerated that, so what was Max Peterson’s role in all of this?’
‘Maybe he just got in the way? Maybe he was just a casualty of war?’
‘Maybe,’ Henry agreed. ‘We need to dig deeper, Mickey. We’ve not mined the truth yet.’
Kem stood and watched the policeman leave. He was deeply uneasy.
They’re right, you know. We should flit, he said to Malina, even though she was no longer beside him.
He could imagine her reply. Our mum would never run.
But, Kem argued, she is dead and gone. Nothing to hold us here. Not now. Everything that needed to be done has now been done and there’s nothing to keep us. We should go. We’ve got Bailey’s men, and now the police, after us, and for what?
Again, he could imagine her response. Calm and steady, as she always was. And you’ll be at sea from this evening. You’ll be safe there. You’ll be gone a week, maybe two?
Two weeks, probably, Kem thought. More if the weather is against us, as it was likely to be at this time of the year. He’d be unlikely to make it back for Christmas.
And by that time perhaps this storm would have blown itself out. Two known criminals, stabbed to death on a beach. Who was going to be interested in that for long, and Bailey had problems of his own. More problems than that to worry about.
Kem thought about what he had avoided telling the copper, not wanting to ride his luck or be implicated further. He knew the man Clough was back. Tommy had told him so, told him Grigor was scared witless, though Tommy didn’t tell him why.
That copper, Kem thought, he’ll not give up. He’s not the type. Like a terrier with a rat he’ll be.
And he’ll find what? Kem really wasn’t sure. All he had to go on were rumours.
Anyway, I might be gone, but what about you? Kem thought, worried beyond words about his sister. He could imagine what she’d say to that.
I’ll be fine. I’ll be careful. I promise it will be all right – just hold your nerve.
Kem turned towards his lodgings. What else could he do? He thought.
TWENTY-FOUR
Find Tommy Boswell and speak with him, Kem had said, and Henry put that task in train as soon as they returned to London.
At eight o’clock the Pritchards reported that Eddy had been followed as far as Camperdown Street but then they’d lost him in the network of alleyways and warehouses. They were apologetic, but Mickey was sanguine. It was a place to focus on.
Around the same time, a phone call to Henry informed him that Thomas Boswell had run and no one knew where to, but the word was that Bailey had put a number on him.
Little Tommy Boswell now had a price on his head.
Henry chafed at the fact that he could do nothing more except wait.
Monday morning found them poring over maps. Morning raids had failed to discover either Bailey or the boy. Prostitutes, drunks, local snouts and respectable householders had been caught up in the dragnet and brought in for questioning. The aim of the exercise was to unsettle and to gather intelligence rather than to arrest and convict. The information inadvertently supplied by the innocent could be as revealing as that elicited from the probably guilty.
In the early afternoon they got a small break. Tommy Boswell’s photograph had been recognized by a ticket seller at Victoria station. He was remembered because he’d turned up so early and seemed to have so little idea of where he wanted to go.
‘Brighton!’ Henry said. ‘Why Brighton?’
‘Why not? It’s as good as anywhere.’
But Rico Clough at least now had a face and an identity and a record and, comparing his arrest photographs to enlarged pictures of the man from Otterham, Henry was sure they were one and the same.
There was only one problem. No one knew where Rico Clough had disappeared to when he had attacked his prison guards and broken free almost three years before.
‘Two were killed and one had his back broken,’ Mickey told him. ‘I spoke to the prison governor. Clough had been a troublemaker from the start. He was being transferred to Durham. On the way the prison van encountered what looked like an accident blocking the road. They assume the driver stopped and found a gun pointed at his head through the van window.’
‘And the guards fought back?’
‘Apparently so. The survivor told a confused tale, but the driver and one of the guards were shot dead,’ Mickey said. ‘According to the surviving guard, so far as he could remember it, the back of the van was opened and the guards were warned they and the driver would be shot if they interfered. They were all family men and were, according to the survivor, well outnumbered. Whatever the truth of that, they opened the doors and Clough was released – only, it seemed, that wasn’t enough for him. The gunmen just stood back and let him get on with it. Broke the back of the second guard and left him for dead. He still can’t recall everything that went on and probably doesn’t want to.’
‘And Clough made his way back here, it seems. So who wanted him out?’
‘That,’ Mickey said, ‘is the big question. But it seems it wasn’t Bailey.’
‘No?’
‘I put the question directly to the governor. You can imagine the investigation that went on afterwards. Countrywide alerts were put out, of course, and now I have the details I recall the incident, but … anyway, all associates and cell mates were interrogated at length and it turned out he’d boasted they’d never get him to Durham. Boasted also that he’d got scores to settle.’
Mickey set his notebook down and pointed to a list. It looked, to Henry, to be a lengthy one. ‘Most of it was probably talk, of course, but two names we can recognize. Bailey and Emma Phillips.’
Henry was surprised by the second. ‘The woman in the wedding picture? What can she have done?’
‘Had the sense to disappear,’ Mickey said. ‘He’d served eight years of a twenty stretch by the time he escaped. Seems he’d kept his grudges alive. For that matter, what does he have against Bailey? Beyond the fact that he’s an execrable human being, though I don’t suppose that someone like Clough would see that as a disadvantage.’
‘Are the records being sent down?’
‘Overnight. We’ll have them by tomorrow morning.’
TWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday brought records from D
urham and also news of Tommy Boswell.
He’d been picked up in Brighton, staying in a cheap boarding house, and was now on his way back to London under escort. He was reportedly terrified.
‘So, he might be more willing to talk this time,’ Mickey said.
‘Well, this afternoon we will find out,’ Henry said. ‘In the meantime, you and I are going to pay another visit to Sarah Cooper.’
‘You think that’s wise?’ Mickey joked, but Henry either wasn’t listening or was choosing not to hear.
This time they were not challenged at the gate but simply escorted to Sarah’s vardo. She seemed unsurprised to see them. She closed the door to her home and seated herself on the steps, wrapping a thick shawl about her shoulders.
‘How are your bruises?’
‘No longer black,’ Henry said.
‘You’ve seen the children?’
‘And warned them both, but Kem will be at sea and Malina seems disinclined to listen to advice. She assures us that she will be careful.’
‘I wish she’d come back here,’ Sarah said. ‘But that ship has sailed. She must live as she sees fit.’
She sounded sad about that, Henry thought.
‘She’s a good girl,’ Sarah said. ‘And he’s a fine lad.’
‘Sarah, I’m told you may have had slaughtermen in the family. Would they have been acquainted with a man called Clough? Rico Clough?’
For the first time in his experience she actually looked startled. ‘That mad bastard,’ she said. ‘Why are you asking about him? Far as I know they locked him up and threw away the key. Only pity is that he didn’t hang.’
‘You know him, then.’ Mickey laughed.
‘It’s not a matter for sport,’ she said. ‘Touched, he was, right from being a kid. His stepdad did what he could to keep him in line; then he died and there was no one to keep control. His poor mother never had a chance. Some folk just have violence in them; it comes out early and they’re never clear of it. It just grows inside of them.’
‘Stepdad? What about his father?’ Mickey asked.
‘She wouldn’t name him. We figured he must have been an outsider. A gadjo.’
‘Kem said that your grandfather worked in a killing yard.’
‘For a bit, yes. Then he came back to trading horses. It was never really in him, not that kind of work, but Ricky, he was all over it. Then he went off to war and did some man killing instead. But he and Manfrid, thick as thieves they were, Manfrid always trailing behind him even as a kid. Ricky was older. Manfrid idolized him.’
‘I understood from Kem that he was on a merchantman,’ Henry said.
‘So he was, that first year. But no one wanted to sail with him. He caused trouble wherever he went and they gave him his marching orders, so he joined up. Anyway, like I said, they locked him up and it wasn’t a minute before time.’
‘He escaped gaol three years ago,’ Mickey told her, and he saw fear in her eyes. ‘Two prison guards were killed and another paralysed. It happened during a prison transfer. He had help, though; armed men staged an accident and the prison van stopped. They threatened to shoot the guards; Rico did more than threaten.’
‘Rico.’ She almost spat the name. ‘He was Ricky. He just thought Rico made him sound … I don’t know, exotic or summat. Manfrid thought he was everything a man should be. Dalla saw him for what he was, but her husband never paid her any mind, did he?’
‘Did he have family?’
‘No one he’d run to, if that’s what you mean. He wasn’t true kin anyhow. One of our men married out. His wife had a sister, the sister married Clough, but he hung around like he was one of ours. His wife was a sweet little thing and she turned up one day, bruised to hell. It was a relief, him going away, but she still couldn’t settle. I think she knew he’d lead a charmed life and come back when it was all over.’
Sarah paused, as though something was suddenly falling into place and she had to process it. ‘Dalla gave her the bus fare to get away,’ she said. ‘She gave her a few bits of clothes, told her to just get on the bus and go. I don’t know what happened to her after that.’
‘And did he know? This Clough.’
‘I didn’t know until after the war, not until Dalla came here. You know, good men died and those two came back, Manfrid and Ricky Clough. The devil really does look after his own, doesn’t he?’
‘And did he have any links to Josiah Bailey?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Rumour said he used Clough to keep the women in line, but I really don’t know, I was never privy to what went on with Bailey. I only ever knew what Dalla told me, and that was little enough. I think she was ashamed of the world she’d married into.’
‘And that was why she moved to the cottage,’ Henry said. ‘And when he came back, Manfrid told her she had to go back with him to London.’
‘Sort of thing he’d do,’ she agreed. ‘And I doubt she’d have had the courage to say no. But he’s gone, isn’t he, so there is some little justice in the world.’
‘And maybe this Clough is now seeking his own kind of justice for the death of his friend?’
‘Revenge, you mean?’ she said. ‘Though in his mind, I suppose, it’s just restoring order.’
TWENTY-SIX
Tommy Boswell was shaking. His hands trembled as he played with his pack of cigarettes, his little book of matches. The same matchbook, Henry noted, as he’d had before. Henry reached over and took it from Tommy’s hand.
‘The Esplanade,’ he said. ‘Not a local hotel.’ He flipped it over and looked at the address printed on the back. ‘Bradford. Isn’t that where Emma Phillips ended up?’
Tommy said nothing.
‘Your friend, Grigor, had a press cutting about her wedding. And our enquiries tell us she was working as a chambermaid. Then she and her new husband moved elsewhere – and don’t worry, Tommy, we don’t know where, and I doubt Bailey will either.’
He studied the mousy little man, taking in the sandy hair and very pale grey eyes and the collar that seemed too big for the skinny little neck. And the shaking hands. ‘Or is it Bailey she’s hiding from? We’ve just found reason to believe she ran from someone else. What do you think, Tommy? Do you think she was running from Ricky Clough?’
The pack of cigarettes dropping from nerveless fingers was all the answer he needed.
‘And did you help her get away? Make a fresh start? I have to say, Tommy, I didn’t reckon you for good works, but you can’t always judge a book by its cover, can you?’
Tommy was shaking his head vehemently. ‘I liked her,’ he said. ‘I wanted … wanted her to like me, but she was never cut out for what he made her do.’
‘What Clough made her do?’
‘Clough and Bailey. He was working for Bailey back then.’
‘Did you know he was out of gaol? That he was on the loose again?’
‘No, no, no, not for sure. I heard rumours, but I never believed them. Never. Bailey did. He reckoned the devil had come back to haunt him, but we all know Bailey ain’t the full picnic. Anyway, it weren’t me, it was Grigor. He helped the girls. Him and Dalla Beaney. Him and Dalla.’
Henry leaned back in his chair and waited. That last had taken him by surprise but he was careful not to show it. The floodgates would open now, he thought. Tommy had begun his story; he’d not be able to stop himself telling the rest.
‘It all started with Clough’s wife,’ Henry told Mickey. ‘Dalla Beaney knew she’d made her own mistakes; she didn’t like to see another woman suffer. This was just at the start of the war. Manfrid Beaney was already gone and Clough would soon follow but in the meantime he was venting his fury against anyone and anything that crossed him.’
‘Dalla must have been married in 1907,’ Mickey said.
Henry calculated. ‘Malina is twenty, she was born the year after the marriage, when Dalla was sixteen, not quite seventeen. By the time she was eighteen she had Kem as well. We know that Kem was five when his father left for the Front and
Dalla could only have been twenty-four. Manfrid Beaney’s war records came through,’ he added. ‘He was twice mentioned in dispatches. The man had courage, even if he was a thug.’
‘So Clough’s wife left in about 1915, we think?’
‘From what Tommy said. But that seems to have given Dalla a taste for wilfulness, and for justice, I suppose. And she pulled Grigor into the scheme. Grigor Vardanyan was just a boy, taking messages, buying train tickets. And playing in the street with Dalla’s two. Then Dalla moved herself and the kids out of London but Tommy reckoned that didn’t stop her.’
‘She was taking a terrible risk,’ Mickey said. ‘What happens between a man and his wife is still considered his own business. The police will get involved only in the most extreme of circumstances, you know that. To come between a man and his wife is considered—’
‘Just plain wrong, by a lot of people who should know better,’ Henry said tartly. ‘Anyway, Tommy thinks she must have helped four or five women to leave. A handful. But enough to have made enemies.’
‘And it’s one thing to assist a beaten woman but quite another to get in the way of business,’ Mickey said. ‘Emma Joan Phillips was a commodity, as far as Bailey was concerned. As far as Clough was concerned, in all probability, this was theft.’
‘I don’t imagine the husbands made that distinction,’ Henry said. ‘The Phillips woman was probably the last. Manfrid was back and so was Clough. In fact he’d been discharged, wounded in the summer of 1918. He’d not returned to the Front but had rejoined Bailey’s crew. But it’s what Tommy reckons happened next that casts a different light on things. You recall Malina’s comment about the fiction of the war ending with a whistle.’
Mickey nodded. ‘Anything further from the truth is hard to imagine,’ he said.
‘Quite. And as we made our slow way home, the roads were packed with the displaced, the poor, the homeless. Men, but mainly women and children. Fair game for a man like Manfrid. A business opportunity for a man like Clough or someone like Bailey.’
Kith and Kin Page 19