Johnny Swanson (16 page)

‘I dare say Mrs Langford treated her kindly. But I thought the accused got on rather better with Dr Langford. Lately I’d sometimes see them meeting and talking together, very early in the morning, outside the house. Dr Langford even gave that son of hers rides on his bicycle.’

‘Are you implying that the relationship between Mrs Swanson and her employer might have been too close?’

‘You might infer that, sir, if you choose to.’

Winnie wasn’t too sure what all this ‘imply’ and ‘infer’ stuff meant, but she could tell what Miss Dangerfield was suggesting, and she cried out, ‘No. That’s not true.’ But it was too late. Miss Dangerfield had managed to introduce an extra element into the case against her.

The lawyer followed it up. ‘Miss Dangerfield, in your long observation of the accused, have you noticed anything else about her character?’

‘Well, I know she works in a pub. Some way from our part of town.’

‘In a rough area?’

‘Indeed. And I know she can’t control her son. That time he was up a tree in the Langfords’ garden, she was there, shouting at him, but she didn’t seem able to make him come down.’

‘Could you hear what she was saying to him?’

‘No, I can’t quite recall. I believe my radio-gramophone may have been on at the time. But whatever she was saying, it wasn’t having any effect.’

Hutch sat in the public gallery, trying to be hopeful. Despite all the bad things Miss Dangerfield had said, as far as he could tell all she’d really proved was that Winnie was outside the doctor’s house on the fateful night. And how much notice would the court take of a sour spinster’s picture of Winnie’s character? If Miss Dangerfield was the only witness the police had against her, perhaps things weren’t as bad as they’d seemed.

But she wasn’t the only witness. Hamish Alexander Murray was called to the stand. It was the PE master
from school, wearing a suit rather than his usual sports kit. The lawyer asked him to state his name, and then confirmed that he was a teacher, and that his facial injuries had been sustained in the war. Hutch could see why he was doing that – to make Murray sound like a hero so that his evidence would be more convincing.

‘Mr Murray,’ said the lawyer, ‘on the night of December the tenth – that is, the night before Dr Langford’s body was discovered – where were you?’

‘I was in the Black Horse public house, sir.’

‘And in the course of the evening, did you see the accused?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now let us be clear. She was not serving behind the bar?’

‘No, sir. She doesn’t work there. I believe Mrs Swanson works in an altogether different class of establishment. She came into the Black Horse for a drink.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘About seven thirty. Maybe seven forty-five.’

‘And you are sure this was on December the tenth?’

‘Yes, sir. It was the night of the storm. She was soaking wet when she arrived, rather bedraggled, and behaving strangely, I remember.’

‘And she was alone?’

‘Yes, sir. I noticed that. I’m sure everybody did. Not many respectable women go into pubs by themselves.’

‘Indeed,’ said the lawyer, hoping the magistrate would draw the obvious conclusion about Winnie’s character. ‘And how would you describe her demeanour?’

‘She looked distressed. Wild, I’d say. Her hair was all over the place, and she was covered in mud. She wouldn’t meet my eyes when I tried to say hello. I would say she was in a real state.’

‘A state? A state of shock?’

‘More agitation … as if something had just happened to her, or as if she had just done something exciting. Desperate, if you get my meaning. More like an animal than a human being.’

The public gallery took in a collective gulp of breath. The lawyer raised one eyebrow just a little, and carried on. ‘Did she speak to anyone else?’

‘Just to order a drink.’

‘An alcoholic drink?’

‘I believe so. Then she sat alone in the corner. She was trembling. I was surprised. You’d think she’d be at home, looking after her son. After all, there’s no man in the house.’

*

Hutch left the court. Even though it was early closing day, the evening papers had to be sorted and delivered. It was just as well that he had to go. He was seething at the picture of Winnie that was being painted, layer by layer; and he knew he should get away before he said something and landed himself in trouble. He wished he’d got to know Winnie better over the years; but she hadn’t lived in Stambleton before her marriage, and after Harry Swanson’s death Hutch had been afraid of being too forward – of seeming too interested in a young war widow, new to town. Yet Hutch knew enough about Winnie and about her son to find it impossible to believe in her guilt. He could think of nothing he could do to help her, but he was determined to shield Johnny from the worst of the evidence, and from the public reaction to her plight.

Even so, when he got back to the shop and found Johnny outside waiting eagerly for news, he had to be honest. ‘You’ll have to be strong, son,’ he said. ‘It isn’t over yet. I don’t think your mother will be home for Christmas.’

H
utch was right. The court decided that Winnie should face a full trial at the end of January. Johnny knew that would bring more torture at school. He’d already been given a new nickname: ‘Swingson’, which constantly reminded him that his mother might hang. He couldn’t face new taunts, so he composed a letter from Auntie Ada, saying that ‘under the circumstances’ it might be appropriate for him to start the Christmas holidays a little early. The headmaster agreed, with relief.

So Johnny had some free time; but he wasn’t allowed to visit his mother, and anyway the prison was two bus rides away. Hutch said he would go next Tuesday, when he’d be closing at lunch time, because it would be Christmas Eve. He told Johnny to make Winnie a card, wishing her well. Hutch would take her a present: something nice to eat, from the shop. But there was the best part of a week to wait until then, and no more school for Johnny.

When Winnie was arrested, he had worried constantly that someone would find out he was living on his own; but far from being troubled by busybodies, Johnny was frozen out by the people of Stambleton. No one visited. Nobody came to their door when he delivered their newspapers. People crossed the street rather than stop and talk to him. He couldn’t tell whether it was embarrassment or contempt that made them do it. He could feel himself being stared at, but no one came near enough to insult him or sympathize. He didn’t want to talk to them either. He stopped playing in the street. Alone in the house, he’d lost the urge to keep busy by tidying up, and even before the hearing he had found himself writing out adverts again. He’d felt guilty at first, after his realization on that terrible night that they had been the cause of the trouble, but he just couldn’t stop himself; and he wanted to keep Auntie Ada alive so that he wouldn’t be taken away to a children’s home.

But Johnny had plenty of time to think, and his determination to persuade the world that his mother couldn’t be a killer was gradually matched by an obsession that the real murderer must still be on the loose. Johnny realized that he knew something the police did not: Dr Langford had been working on the
BCG vaccine – or at least someone at a laboratory ‘out in the wilds’ had been doing it on his behalf. Suppose that was the reason he had been killed? Johnny remembered how determined the Langfords had been to keep it a secret – how worried they were that someone might find out. What if somebody had? Johnny agonized about his promise not to say anything. Mrs Langford had been unambiguous:
Whatever happens, whoever asks you, however much you feel like boasting – not a word
. Did that mean he shouldn’t tell the police? Dr Langford was dead. He couldn’t suffer any more. But what about Mrs Langford? She might get into trouble if Johnny spoke out. But maybe she was in danger anyway. Suppose the killer found her in France, or was waiting for her to come home, so that he could strike again? Johnny decided that he would have to break his silence. After all, the police were used to keeping secrets themselves. Then he remembered how much the reporter had found out about his mother from officers who couldn’t resist passing details on. Was it worth the risk? In the end he decided that if it might save his mother, it was. On his first day off school he steeled himself to go back to the police station.

*

This time the desk sergeant recognized him straight away. He was just as hostile as before.

‘What do you want? Your mother’s not here any more. She’s in the big prison now.’

‘I know. I want to talk to you. I want to help you find the real killer.’

‘We already have the real killer, son.’

‘No you don’t. My mother could never hurt anyone. Someone else did it.’

‘And you know who, do you?’ The swing doors opened, and a man came in from the street. The policeman broke off from talking to Johnny. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment, sir. This won’t take long.’ He turned back to Johnny. ‘Well? Do you have a name to give me?’

‘Not a name, exactly,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

The newcomer was leaning against the counter and looking down at Johnny with a patronizing smile. Johnny felt he couldn’t go into details of Dr Langford’s secret in front of a complete stranger.

‘It’s private too,’ said Johnny, hoping the policeman would take him somewhere they could speak without being overheard.

The policeman laughed. ‘If it’s so private, you’d
better keep it to yourself, son. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Now, this gentleman would probably appreciate a little privacy. You’d better be on your way.’

‘But it’s important.’

‘I said get out of it.’

Johnny stood for a moment, stuttering, but the policeman just pointed to the door. ‘Now, sir, what can I do for you?’ he asked the man.

‘I want to report a lost dog.’

The policeman started making a note. Without even looking up, he bellowed at Johnny again. ‘Go!’

Johnny knew there was no point in staying. He ran away, not letting the tears of fear, anger and dismay break through until the door swung shut behind him.

That afternoon, he hit on a different tactic. He would write down his ideas about an alternative killer in a note to Inspector Griffin. He thought at first that he would do it in Auntie Ada’s name, but then he envisaged the scene when the inspector came round and found out that she didn’t really exist. So he wrote everything out as neatly as he could, and signed it himself. He slipped it into his bag when he went on the evening paper round, and as soon as the last
newspaper had been put through the last letter box, he made his way to the police station again. He was barely through the door before the desk sergeant was shouting at him.

‘Wasting police time is a crime, you know.’

‘I just want to drop off a letter for Inspector Griffin.’

‘A letter about what, exactly?’

‘It’s about the murder. To help him find the person who did it.’

‘And why should he listen to you? He already has the murderer in custody, as you know only too well.’

‘But she didn’t do it!’

‘So who did?’

‘I don’t know, exactly. But all my ideas are in this letter.’ Johnny put it down on the counter.

‘And why should Inspector Griffin take any notice of that? Why should he believe a small boy trying to save his mother, and ignore witnesses who’ve given sworn evidence against her in court?’

‘Because I know something they don’t know.’

‘And it’s all in here?’ said the sergeant, picking up the envelope.

‘Yes. Please take it.’

‘Oh, I’ll take it, son. I’ll take it and I’ll file it in the appropriate place.’

‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. But his momentary relief turned to anguish again as the sergeant tore the envelope in two and dropped it behind him.

‘Now I’m warning you, boy,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of your time-wasting. Keep away from here.’ The sergeant lifted a flap in the counter and walked through to the ‘public’ side of the room. Through the gap, Johnny could see the torn letter in the waste-paper basket. The policeman grabbed his arm and manhandled him through the door. ‘I don’t want to see you here again,’ he hissed as Johnny tumbled down the steps. ‘I’ve a good mind to come round to your house to tell that aunt of yours that if she can’t control you, we’ll put you with someone who can.’

As he helped Hutch close up the shop, Johnny worried that the police were ransacking his home and discovering that there was no Auntie Ada.

Hutch noticed his agitation. ‘Are you all right, son?’ he asked. ‘You don’t seem yourself today.’

Johnny wanted to tell him everything, but he didn’t think he should betray the Langfords’ secret to anyone except the police, and he feared that if he told Hutch that he’d lied about his auntie he might lose the only person he had on his side.

‘No. Well. I’m just worried about … Well, you know,’ he said.

‘I understand,’ said Hutch, awkwardly restraining himself from giving Johnny a hug. He took a jar of strawberry jam from a shelf. ‘Here. Take this home to your auntie. She must be worried too, poor thing.’

Johnny took the jar and ran home. The door was still locked, and there was no sign that anyone had been inside. He got a pillow and some of his mother’s clothes, and pulled round the big armchair so that it had its back to the door. He pulled the curtains almost shut, leaving just enough of a gap to satisfy anyone who was determined to look inside. Everything was arranged so that they would think they saw an old woman asleep by the fireplace. He hoped they’d be too polite to try to wake her up.

E
ven with the pretend Auntie Ada in place, Johnny was lonely – perhaps even more lonely than before. Sitting by himself, eating jam straight from the jar with a spoon, he desperately wanted to talk to someone, to tell them what was happening to his mother, and how no one except Hutch believed that she was innocent.

He decided to try again to find Olwen. Although he had met her only once, she’d been on his mind ever since. She’d been kind when everyone else was bullying him, and she hadn’t heard any of the nasty rumours about Winnie. He felt that she would understand. He wanted to write to her, but all he knew was that she was with relatives somewhere in Wales. He remembered that she had lived on a farm outside Stambleton, so next morning he set off to walk there, hoping the farmer would know her new address. It was a harder, colder walk than he had expected, and even when he reached a sign saying
NEWGATE FARM
(which was nailed to a very old-looking gate), a long track wound its way towards the farmhouse. Johnny was trudging round a corner when a battered van came the other way. He jumped aside, expecting it to pass, but the driver, a weather-beaten man wearing an ill-fitting suit, stopped and spoke to him.