A Question Of Honour: A Harry Royle Thriller (7 page)

He had been told to leave the money and the gun on the car floor well covered and then to get out and go home. Sitting on the bus going to Princess Road, he turned the recent events over in his mind and made a decision. He would leave the city as soon as he got his share of the money and head for London, take his chances there. He got up and leaving the bus looked up at the clock tower, which rose above the vast bus depot. He braved calling at the shop on the way home for more cigarettes and noticed the complete lack of excitement. He reasoned that the news hadn't spread as far as Moss Side, so it was safe to go home.

Once back in Denmark Road, he sat with a hot steaming cup of tea, just poured from his new pride and joy. A flask purchased in the city when he was feeling a bit flash a few days earlier. He didn't even have a gas ring in the corner of the room, but he did have a kindly landlady, and she had suggested he might like to use the kitchen for cups of tea, so long as he helped out with the tea, milk and sugar. He had then come up with the idea of a vacuum flask. He stroked the shiny dark brown Bakelite jug, his mind suddenly focused again on the awful morning and he realised that no amount of triviality or cups of tea would help his situation. It was then that he heard a commotion coming from downstairs. Before he could react, he heard his landlady's voice right outside the door.

"Mr Trent, did you hear the dreadful news on the wireless just now?"

Royle, half standing, froze rooted to the spot. His mind raced in search of answers and found none. Her voice came again, this time more agitated.

"Mr Trent, please let me in, something horrible has happened."

Harry got up, quickly crossing the room, and opened the door. The distraught woman shuffled inside. Royle felt unable to speak, his mouth and throat had become so dry in the short time it had taken to let the woman inside the small room. He wanted to make a run for it, get down the stairs and get away, anywhere, just away. Instead, he indicated the vacant chair. He took a cigarette and held the packet out to her, she waved it away managing a half smile. He took a match and ignited the Woodbine held between his own lips. The old woman leaned towards the floor and took several deep breaths. For a moment, Royle thought that she was going to faint, but it passed, and she looked up at him once more and spoke.

"It was on the wireless just now, horrible it was."

Harry took the cigarette from his mouth and forced a question from his now swollen throat.

"What is it?"

"The airship, that Hinder something or other that's what."

Royle felt an anvil slide off his shoulders and he relaxed into the moment. He found his voice.

"The Hindenburg, What of it?"

The woman shook her head and as she answered her voice choked back a sob.

"It caught on fire and killed all those people, poor souls, that's what. Mr Trent."

The event appeared to have really shaken her. She seemed a nervous sort to Harry, considering it was all old news concerning the airship disaster, just raking over old coals. Harry patted the woman's shoulder and offered her a cup of tea, she refused, but smiled and nodded at his small act of kindness. Her eyes went to his new flask on the table.

"Got yourself one of those flask things, clever of you, wouldn't do for me, I don't think it would taste proper out of that, but if it works for you dear."

The woman glanced across at the broken wardrobe but said nothing. On her way out, the woman stopped at the door and looked at Royle.

"I don't mean to pry or anything, but those men who came to see you last night, one of them dropped a newspaper on the stairs on his way out."

Harry stiffened.

"I'm sorry, I hope they didn't make too much noise?"

"No like mice they were, very thoughtful. No, it was the paper I wanted to return."

Harry shook his head.

"I think you can throw it away, can't see them wanting an old newspaper."

The woman stood her ground.

"Well, I thought that, until I saw it, that is."

"Saw what?"

"An article, only a small one mind, but ringed with pen and with some writing beside it. Something about a soldier on the run, real criminal type, it said he had been traced here to Manchester."

Harry Royle's heart sank and his head began to spin. He swallowed hard and gripped the door frame hard in an effort to steady both himself and his nerves. He forced his mouth to smile though he couldn't be certain of the result.

"He won't want that, you can throw it away. He likes to keep abreast of the news and has a habit of circling anything of interest which he might bring up in a later conversation."

The woman smiled.

"Smart type then. Good, I'll use it to lay the fires in the morning. I'll add the money for the wardrobe onto your rent. Good night dear."

With that, she was off shuffling back down the stairs. The landlady's visit had got Harry well and truly rattled. He spent the next few hours pacing the floor, looking out of the window and smoking a long line of cigarettes in quick succession. He kept telling himself that the newspaper article meant nothing, they knew he was a deserter, Pete had told him so. How on earth had the police traced him, there was no way he had left a clue. He had even changed trains three times. The police couldn't know, unless.

The word, unless, was punctuated with a deep nagging hole which had suddenly appeared where his stomach had been. He found himself in the middle of the little room, as the walls started to come in on him. His eyes blurred and his brain seemed to pound in his skull. He had to think and think quickly. He knew he had little money left, but no gun, no car and he was trapped in an upstairs flat.

It would be only a matter of time before they came. He knew things. But did he really know anything? Mr Green, not the man's name. Pete, Eric, Dave, the pub. Would the police find anything more than a pub full of people who knew nothing? The car could be traced only to Royle. Susan would do that, without knowing what she was saying. He was lost. He had to run again and fast, so much for being treated well.

Now at last he understood what had been happening and why he hadn't been sure of Pete. The man had been fattening Harry up for the slaughter. What was it the Yanks called it? A Patsy that was it. He had to hand it to them, it was a great plan, only he had been seen at the ironworks, and with the car. If the gang all kept quiet and who knew how big it was, he would have no chance, and would just be seen as a desperate man clutching at straws.

Going over to the window, he opened it wide and pushed his head out. The air was cold and the night perfectly still. No sign of life could be discerned. Royle knew a suitcase was out of the question and instead just pushed his feet into his shoes, put on his topcoat and brown trilby. He quietly eased himself over the window ledge.

With legs dangling, he turned his body around and reached out with his right hand. A sharp gust of wind took his hat and blew it away into the night. He managed to grasp the cast iron drain pipe, which was very cold and pull himself over to it. He climbed down the stout black pipe very slowly. At street level, he leaned against the wall and stood completely still for a full count of fifty. Nothing. Silence was all that greeted him. He'd had the presence of mind to stuff the map into one of his inside coat pockets, and knew he would have to plan an escape route once he was in a better, and much safer place.

He ran in quick spurts, crossing streets and roads and then freezing against walls, listening all the time for any sound which might betray a manhunt. There was nothing. This carried on for some time, perhaps an hour.

Later he would realise that he had gone in a circular arc, but at the time he was running blindly. Finding himself against a railing, he quickly climbed over and lost himself among the tall old trees. It was a park and a large one.

Back at the house in Denmark road the lights were blazing downstairs. The landlady was sitting back in her chair admiring her new shiny Bakelite vacuum flask. Pete stood beside the woman and beamed at her.

"There you are mum, practically brand spanking new and only one careful owner."

The woman grinned back up at him.

"Son, you played a real blinder. Poor lad looked fit to drop when I told him about that newspaper article. I thought he was going to ask about it for a minute and that would have caused me problems. I would have had to pretend to look for it and then told him the cat had squatted on it."

With this, they both roared with laughter. When the laughter died down, the woman covered her son's grimy hand with her own weather-beaten specimen and continued to speak.

"Tell you what Alan, or should that be Pete? This was my best idea so far. Mr Green, where did that daft brother of yours get that name from? Honestly. You sure that them that owns the pub won't say anything?"

He shook his head.

"No Mum, like I said before, they know nothing. I paid the bar staff and they were working alone those nights, the owners don't know nothing about it. Harry doesn't know any of our names. The cafe owner will swear blind he's never seen him or us. And you know I followed him the other day so I can tip off the coppers not only about him but about that girl who drove his car too. He didn't bring her here and I bet he was too ashamed to give her the address, so we're all in the clear. Mum, it bloody well worked."

She slapped him across the left ear lightly.

"Language my lad."

"Sorry mum."

"That's all right, but just remember your manners, I brought you boys up to be decent young men."

With that, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Then she looked at the dark brown flask and caressed its smooth surface.

"Tea?"

"Don't mind if I do."

With this, they both laughed heartily again.

Harry Royle remained in the park until the sun came up. The sky was all of a sudden shot through with bright crimson strokes, like those applied from an artist's palette. Harry had not dared risk lighting a cigarette in the darkness, in case it had given the game away. Now with the light coming in, he lit one and pulled hard at it, causing the tip to glow brightly. Pulling out the map, he found that he was in Alexander Park and not as far away from Denmark Road as he had hoped.

Taking a chance, Harry turned up his collar and walked briskly through the main park gates and across to the bus station. The streets were fairly quiet containing just enough working men to blend in with. He realised as he joined a bus queue bound for the city, that he was hatless, something he didn't like. He hadn't slept, so at least his hair was in place and his clothes in good order. The conductor was too bleary-eyed to take any notice of him, he paid the fare and took a seat. He looked out of the window at the passing streets as the bus made its way into the city centre.

He left the bus at St Peter's square, and finding a gentleman's outfitters, bought two hats, a new brown trilby as well as a dark brown checked tweed flat cap. He told the assistant that his own hat had been blown under a passing tram. The man had smiled sympathetically and was only too happy to take the money and ring up the first sale of the morning.

Wearing the new trilby and with the cap folded up in his inside overcoat pocket, Royle set a decent Guardsman's pace toward Central station. The station was away from the busy crowds of the city centre. He bought a paper at the station and scanned it looking for anything about him. He found nothing. Satisfied, he bought a ticket and waited for the London train.

A poster proclaimed that the Peak Express would only take three hours and thirty-five minutes to the capital. It seemed to Royle to be quite a boast, but a fast get-a-way was certainly in order, so he was pleased, as he sat in the crowded third-class compartment as the train pulled away. He had been lucky and had found a window seat. He hadn't wanted to be on an end seat, as passing people could get a good look at his face. This way, his seating area was blocked from observation, by the large, talkative man with the newspaper. This suited Harry perfectly. He wanted to appear that he and the stranger were good friends.

The man was well dressed, but not overly smart. He had short tight black curly hair and something of a Charley Chaplin moustache. He had kind eyes and a nervous leg that bounced in time with the train. The two talked of weather and train times, and then the conversation turned to work. Royle told the man, whose name was Ernie Scuttle, that he was a printer and had his samples stolen. This got sympathy but stopped further questions on the subject.

Scuttle was a salesman for Ewbank and spent a large part of the journey trying to sell Harry the latest self-lifting mangle. The leaflet thrust into Royle's hand proclaimed the new machine to be so good as to be worth talking about. Harry was amused both by the sales pitch, as well as the machine. The journey passed comfortably and Harry Royle arrived at St Pancras relaxed and ready for what lay ahead. Shaking hands firmly, they parted company with the promise of a future meeting over a drink. But Harry knew this was an empty promise.

Chapter 5

Soho, London: December 1938

Getting to the capital was only the beginning, as Harry didn't know anyone or have any place to go. Royle had managed to keep his head down. His money ran out too quickly, and he had only been able to afford a room for the first week. After that, he had given it up, deciding that food was more important than shelter. He managed to wash and shave in different public toilets, but his clothes began to look shabby, and he knew it would only be a matter of time before either, he was spotted, or else would have to give himself up. He had been sleeping rough in different places for three days. Three long days without food and with only water from fountains and toilet sink taps. Harry was trying to get comfortable at four in the morning, in a disused shop doorway, just off the Old Kent Road, hungry and worn out, when voices startled him.