After Hours (23 page)

Joe wondered where it would all lead. He himself cared less
about the miners than the present newspaper outcry against one Patrick Mahon, murderous resident of Crumbles, near Pevensey in Sussex. ‘They say he chopped up the body,' he told Billy, having steered the conversation towards the sensational case. Joe's morbid interest in such things no doubt sprang from his own daughter's death, for which Chalky White had eventually got the drop. He followed every detail of the current scandal. ‘Her name was Emily Kaye, and she was his mistress.'

‘I hope they string him up,' Arthur put in. ‘Like they did that Edith Thompson a couple of years back.'

Billy retreated to the safety of Annie's front room for more pork pie and tea from Hettie. ‘How's Jess and family?' he asked conversationally.

‘They're fine, thanks. Mo and Grace ain't at school for the summer holidays, so Jess is pretty busy.' Hettie told him they were considering taking on help, both in the shop and at home.

He nodded, took his tea out into the court and, spying Joe and Arthur still hard at it, sought out the less lurid company of George Mann. The two men talked of more layoffs on the docks and a threatened strike on public transport. The TUC were heading towards a general strike, Billy felt sure.

‘Ramsay MacDonald's against it,' George pointed out.

‘But he's sitting on his backside in Westminster, he ain't the one being squeezed by the owners.' Billy felt strongly on the point.

Tommy, pie in hand, had overheard. ‘That's why I work from my own stalls,' he put in. ‘Ain't no one breathing down my neck.'

‘Not till you get yourself hitched, Tommy, no!' George nudged him. ‘Ain't it about time you were looking round for a missus?'

But Tommy had no intention, he said. ‘Women is a thing I leave alone. It don't pay to get hitched. Look at Annie!'

They spotted her small, slight figure dressed in a long black skirt and high white blouse, bustling around with replenishments.

Tommy struck a serious pose, thumb in waistcoat pocket, chewing as he spoke. ‘No, what I mean to say is, women is trouble. I've had my fling, I can tell you, but they always go screeching and carrying on before too long. Then, when they got you well and
truly hooked, what do you get? A missus rowing, kids squalling, no coal in the grate and no food on the table. A missus only makes a man miserable. And kids? I won't have them. Look at my ma when we was young, washing and scrubbing till all hours just to keep us fed, and the little ones always crying for bread. No, I'm happy as I am, with my stalls and my mates, and having a beer when I like, and no blessed missus to come home to, ta very much!'

Billy and George applauded Tommy's long and eloquent speech. ‘Blimey!' George winked at Joe. ‘I see you brought him up not to fall for the first pair of flashing eyes.'

But Dolly stood prepared to take Tommy on. ‘What makes you think any girl would fall for you?' she demanded. ‘You ain't exactly no prize catch, Tommy O'Hagan.' She said women liked tall and muscular men like George, not skinny ones like Tommy, or Arthur for that matter. She squared up to him. ‘You may be a fast mover and a fast talker, Tommy, but you
h
ain't no
H
adonis. You need beefing up with a bit of muscle, you do. And you won't get far with just them big blue eyes neither!'

‘Oh, Dolly, ain't I the one for you?' Tommy cried, as if stricken. ‘And here's me thinking I was God's gift.'

‘Well, you ain't, Tommy, believe me.' It was her turn to wink at the older men then stroll off.

‘Blimey!' Tommy recovered an upright stance, his confidence intact.

The occasion had begun to go with a swing and, by the end of the morning, Dolly was congratulating Annie on a good show. ‘Just like the old Coronation days,' she said. ‘And we need a good get-together since they closed you down, Duke.' She nudged his arm. ‘We miss our Saturday night sing-songs, don't we, Arthur? The Lamb and Flag, it ain't a patch on the Duke.'

‘The Prince of Wales,' Annie corrected her with a pinched look. ‘You could always try there when they open up them brand-new doors.'

‘Ha!' Dolly countered. ‘Over my dead body, Annie. Over my dead body.'

At Annie's insistence, the police had begun a desultory investigation into the circumstances behind Wiggin's death. A few days before the funeral, they'd come down the court, a fresh young constable and the cynical desk sergeant from Union Street. They intended to poke around in Wiggin's old room and to speak to the other inhabitants of Eden House.

‘Who cleaned up the mess?' the sergeant asked Bertie Hill, who let them into the room with his key. It was bare except for the bed, the trunk and a hessian sack full of what seemed like rubbish; paper, broken bottles, stale food.

Hill shrugged. He didn't like having police oh the property, or having his time wasted. But he knew, as an ex-copper himself, that they had a job to do. ‘Maybe it was Annie, the old girl what kept an eye on him.' He thought a bit longer. ‘No, come to think, it was Rob Parsons from the Duke-that-was. The pub on the corner.' He explained to the two policemen the tangled connection between Wiggin, Annie and Rob, taking trouble to point out the things the family would have against the old tramp.

‘And Rob Parsons cleared up the evidence?' the sergeant repeated. He paced the room in his shiny boots and came to a standstill by the hearth. ‘Looks like he did a proper job.' He looked at the faint stain under his feet and bent to-take a closer look.

The enthusiastic constable, whose short blond haircut and smooth face under a too-big helmet gave him the air of a scrubbed schoolboy, surmised that the stain was blood and that a fight must have taken place in the room. ‘Broken glass. Blood stains. It could've been the end of a broken bottle what finished him off. Looks like the job was done right here, then they lugged the guts up the Embankment and dropped it off the bridge.'

The sergeant ignored him and turned to Bertie Hill. ‘You say you didn't hear nothing?' He knew of the man's reputation. Everyone in the force had heard how, a couple of years before, the whiff of scandal had pushed him back into Civvy Street before a proper investigation could get started. Two or three coppers in Hackney had been taking money from the protection gangs to steer clear of their patches. They'd been dropped in it by a notorious gang
member called Gyp the Blood, whom police had hauled in on other, more serious charges. Hill, like his two colleagues, had made a sharp exit from the force.

‘Not a dicky bird.' Hill knew the ropes. He didn't want to get involved.

‘And when did you last set eyes on him alive?' The sergeant sniffed and stared up at the ceiling.

‘I never saw him.'

‘Never? How did he pay his rent?'

‘He never. The old lady did. She did all his shopping and cooking. He never went out.'

The sergeant sniffed again, as if the smell was bad and it was emanating from Hill. ‘You never got on with him, then?'

‘I never had the chance. His rent was paid, that's all.' Hill stared steadily back.

‘Ain't never had no visitors and such like, I don't suppose?'

‘No.'

‘Just his old lady?'

‘His ex-old lady, like I was saying.'

‘And what about this Rob Parsons?'

Hill laughed scornfully. ‘No, he ain't no angel of mercy coming to help a poor sinner. That's more his sister, Hettie.'

‘So he weren't fond of Wiggin neither?' The sergeant got round to the only line of investigation on offer. After all, Parsons seemed to be the one who'd interfered with the room. If the old woman wanted an investigation, they'd give her one. He liked to inject a touch of irony into life.

Hill frowned, seeing an opportunity to lay it on thick. ‘He only said he'd like to do the old bloke in.'

The young constable looked downright eager. ‘How's that?' The sergeant turned down the corners of his mouth and poked at the bag of rubbish with his toe.

‘In the Duke. I heard Rob Parsons swear he'd cheerfully strangle Wiggin. Him and Tommy O'Hagan from upstairs, they was always on about it. They all think it was Wiggin turned in Rob's old man, see. For serving after hours. The old man lost his licence over it.'

The two policemen considered this. They thanked Hill and set off up the court, noticing the renovations underway at the pub. That part of Hill's account was true, at least. ‘No chance of a quick one in there,' the sergeant commented about its locked doors and empty windows. ‘How about the Lamb and Flag?'

‘Ain't we going to question this Robert Parsons?' The keen young officer was disappointed.

The sergeant looked at him with a sigh. ‘Where's the rush? I reckon Annie Whatsername will soon stop bleating about a proper investigation once she hears her stepson's in the frame.' He saw no point in putting much energy into the case; when it came to it, who could care less what had happened to the old tramp? He would go through the motions of an investigation, but that was all.

Sadie Parsons guessed rightly that Rob would take time off to go to Wiggin's funeral. Hearing long-distance of all that was going on, usually through Hettie, she knew they'd all be gathered at Annie's house for the morning of the eighth. So she applied for a half-day's holiday through her supervisor, Turnbull, and though he frowned and prevaricated, she pleaded compassionate grounds over the funeral, and he was forced to agree. This lie was the first and least obstacle the day held for her, for she had no intention of attending the service to bury Wiggin.

‘Ain't you going into work today?' Richie asked from under the sheets. It was eight o'clock on the morning of the funeral.

Sadie was dressing in a V-neck dress without sleeves, part of the cream outfit which Jess and Hettie had made up for her that spring. ‘It's Wiggin's funeral, remember.' She offered no further explanation.

‘You ain't going to a funeral dressed like that.' He sat up to light a cigarette.

‘Says who?' She put on a small cloche hat and pulled it firmly down. ‘It ain't nothing formal. Annie don't want it that way.' She smiled briefly. ‘How about you?'

He shrugged. ‘Ain't no use going down the Labour Exchange and joining the queue again.'

‘Well, it's too late for the docks.'

‘I know that.' He inhaled deeply. ‘Ain't no use going down there neither, not with these lay-offs building up.'

Sadie forced down a bubble of anxiety. ‘Never mind.' She went to kiss him before she left. ‘Something will turn up.' This morning she was keen not to upset him, so she hid what she wanted to ask; how were they to go on paying the rent, which had just gone up by five shillings a week, or make the place decent and buy food and clothes on her wage only? She knew Richie was trying hard to find work, but wishing and hoping didn't pay the bills.

‘When will you be back?' He made much of the kiss, reluctant to let her go.

‘Usual time. I'm going on to work after.' She pulled away at last.

He released her and watched her head for the door. She was edgily bright, as if she was hiding something from him. He had an uneasy feeling that the funeral was not where she was headed.

Sadie walked herself into a calmer frame of mind. She timed it to arrive at Meredith Court as the mourners gathered in the next street. She expected to find Walter all alone in the taxi depot.

Her daring deviousness made her heart beat rapidly as she entered the yard. Both cars were parked, and she spotted Walter in his shirt-sleeves, resting against one of the taxis. He was reading a newspaper. She hurried up to him with an awkward admission to make, and a request that would hurt her pride.

Walter looked up as he heard her quick footsteps. She caught him completely off guard. ‘Sadie!'

She laughed nervously. ‘I ain't a ghost, Walter.' She stood beside him, hands clasped, looking up from under her hat.

‘Rob's at the funeral.' He folded his paper, trying to collect his thoughts. In her cream dress she looked slim and girlish.

She nodded. ‘I came to see you. I got something to ask, but I've been trying it all ways, and I can't get it right. The words, I mean.'

‘What is it?' Her confusion shot down all his defences and made him take her by the arm to lead her into the office. He sat her down and took the phone off its hook. ‘Fire away,' he invited, looking intently at her.

‘First off, is Rob still mad at me?' she began awkwardly.

‘He don't say.' Walter knew better than to upset the applecart by prying into Rob's private affairs.

‘Are
you
mad at me?'

He shook his head.

‘And are you still upset with Richie?'

‘Ah!' He looked down at his desk and spoke softly. ‘Ain't Richie got himself fixed up yet?'

Sadie sat opposite him, swallowing her pride, battling to keep both hands and voice steady. ‘He ain't, Walter. Things ain't easy.'

‘You want us to give Richie his old job back?'

She took a deep breath, pushed on to the offensive by a crowd of uncomfortable feelings. ‘He's good at what he does, ain't he? And it weren't fair, what Rob did. I wish you'd talk him round for me.'

‘It ain't that easy.' Walter took a few seconds to dampen his own reactions and put them to one side. He tried to look at the problem with clear vision. ‘You know what Rob's like as well as I do, Sadie.'

‘That's what I'm doing, here with you now. Ain't no way I can talk Rob round. But
you
might. You go over it again with him; tell him Richie didn't do nothing wrong, asking me out. Tell him you ain't bothered about me no more.'

‘That ain't true,' he said simply.

‘Only in the friendly way, then!' Sadie grew desperate. ‘You see, Walter, Richie's tried for work, and it's a strain on him. I can't bear to see him low. He needs this job!'