Johnny Swanson (28 page)

The inspector could see that Johnny was panicking. He was stern but understanding. ‘Johnny, I know you’ve been through a lot in the last few weeks. We may be able to resolve the matter of the advertisements if I give you the name and address of the person who has complained, and you send him back his money.’

Johnny sighed with relief. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said gravely. ‘I promise I’ll do it tomorrow.’

‘In that case,’ said Inspector Griffin, ‘I think it is time you went home.’ He stood up and took a step towards the door. Then he stopped abruptly and turned to Johnny, thinking out loud. ‘So Mrs Langford wanted a disguise …’ he mumbled. ‘She must have been planning to get away – to hide and leave Bennett and Howell to face the music. Perhaps she was even planning to pin Langford’s murder on them.’

‘And?’ said Hutch, not really following the policeman’s train of thought.

‘Well, it just might help me when I’m talking to the others. If I can show that Mrs Langford was preparing to double-cross them even before their plot was discovered, it might break down any last vestige of loyalty between them.’

Johnny interrupted. ‘There wasn’t much sign of loyalty when they were arguing in Wales. If you ask me, it’s more likely that she was going to kill the others so they couldn’t tell on her, and then change her appearance so she would never be found.’

Inspector Griffin nodded. ‘Either way, sending off for that disguise shows how devious she’s been. If she tries to defend herself against the murder charge by saying it was self-defence or a single moment of madness, we’ll be able to demonstrate how she kept on plotting to save herself.’

‘I’d never have thought she could be like that,’ said Johnny.

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Inspector Griffin, ‘how people behave after they’ve killed. I’ve seen quite a few murderers in my time. Many torture themselves with guilt; but some plot a killing in cold blood, and then seem perfectly normal – even congenial – once they’ve got rid of the person they despised. Others, who’ve surprised themselves by killing, entirely lose their grip on what’s right and wrong.’

‘Is that what’s happened to Mrs Langford?’ asked Johnny.

‘I’d say so. She killed a decent, loving man. No one else matches up to her estimation of him, and no
crime she might commit in future can seem as bad to her as what she’s already done. So why shouldn’t she kill again? That’s why she thought nothing of threatening you and Howell. She might eventually have moved on to another stage, enjoying killing and taking a pride in avoiding capture. Some killers even manage to convince themselves that they’re not guilty, when all the evidence points the other way.’

‘And some suspects really are innocent, despite appearances,’ said Hutch severely.

Inspector Griffin knew he was thinking of Winnie. He gave an embarrassed cough. It was the nearest he came to an apology. ‘Anyway, Johnny,’ he said, trying to lighten the mood, ‘that advert of yours may have done the trick in solving this crime. I think we’ll be able to turn a blind eye to how it got in the paper – just as long as there are no more.’

‘Oh, I promise,’ said Johnny, meaning it. ‘I’ll never, ever do it again.’

Hutch interrupted. ‘There’s something I would like to ask Johnny, if I may,’ he said to the detective.

‘Go ahead,’ said Inspector Griffin, hoping for another revelation that might advance the case.

‘Well, Johnny,’ said Hutch, ‘I was just wondering …’

‘Yes?’ said Johnny. ‘You know you can ask me anything, Hutch.’

‘I was wondering. How
do
you transform yourself instantly and for ever? What’s the answer to that one?’

Johnny was abashed. He looked at his feet and muttered, ‘Cut your head off.’

Hutch shrugged his shoulders. ‘Not one of your best, son,’ he sighed. ‘Maybe it is time to call it a day.’

T
he next day, the phone in the wooden booth at Hutch’s shop kept ringing. There were calls from newspapers, well-wishers, and Inspector Griffin, who was over at the prison organizing all the paperwork so that Winnie could come home. Johnny told Hutch about his meeting with Olwen, and persuaded him to phone Professor Campbell at Craig-y-Nos to find out how she was. It was hard to get through. The Welsh sanatorium was also besieged by the press, but eventually Hutch had some news for Johnny.

‘Well, he wouldn’t tell me much over the phone,’ he said. ‘Quite right, of course, I could be anybody. But it seems that Olwen’s going to stay at Craig-y-Nos until her next of kin are found. But the professor promised to pass on a letter, if you want to write to her.’

‘Of course I do,’ said Johnny.

‘If you’re quick, we can get something in the post tonight. Then, I hope, we’ll be able to go and pick up
your mother as soon as I’ve closed the shop. Inspector Griffin has offered to take us to the prison in his car.’

Johnny and Hutch waited in the police car while Inspector Griffin went into the jail to complete the last of the formalities. He seemed to be gone for ages, though it was really only a quarter of an hour; and Johnny started to worry that something had gone wrong. To avoid crowds gathering outside the prison, Griffin had told the press that Winnie wouldn’t be released until the next day.

In the chill of the evening the deserted street was made even gloomier by the shadow of the high prison wall. There was a small door cut into one side of the massive prison gate. Eventually it opened, throwing a rectangle of light across the street, and Inspector Griffin stepped out. At first Johnny feared he was alone, but then the detective turned and helped a tiny figure through behind him. Winnie was weak, and bewildered by her sudden freedom, but she spread her arms wide as she saw Johnny leap from the car and run towards her.

‘Mummy!’ Johnny cried, calling her by the name he hadn’t let himself use since he was ten. He wanted to tell her everything, but all he could say was: ‘Oh, Mummy! Mummy! You’re back! You’re back!’

Winnie’s voice cracked as she hugged him and whispered, ‘Yes, darling. And I know I’m free because of you. Oh, Johnny. I couldn’t be more proud of you.’

By now they were both in tears, and inside the car Hutch was reaching for his handkerchief.

Winnie’s neighbours had been busy all day. Anxious to pretend to themselves that they had never despised or disparaged her, they had mended the windows of her house and cleaned off all the slogans from the walls. The farmer from Newgate had driven to town with some eggs and milk. He left them on the kitchen table with a note humbly apologizing for being so cruel to Johnny, and he laid a fire in the grate. Even Mrs Slack brought something. It was a pan of hot soup. Johnny wouldn’t eat it. He was scared it might contain an extra, yellow, liquid ingredient; but he told Winnie he just wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want her to know all the horrible details of his time alone at home.

‘At least with Bennett in jail, the rent won’t be going up,’ said Johnny, as he sliced the pie Hutch had brought for their supper. ‘And you don’t need to go out to work for a while, Mum. I managed to save up some cash while you were away.’

Hutch and Winnie, sitting in front of the fire, exchanged a glance that told Johnny she knew about the advertisements. He was relieved not to have to explain it all himself. He started to say sorry.

‘We’ll talk about that some other time,’ said his mother, pouring him another cup of tea.

Johnny and Winnie both slept late the next day. After breakfast they had a visitor. It was the new doctor, who had taken on Dr Langford’s patients when he retired. He gave Winnie a thorough check, and examined Johnny to make sure he had not picked up any nasty germs at Craig-y-Nos.

‘Everything’s fine, Mrs Swanson,’ he reassured Winnie as he put away his stethoscope. ‘Keep him off school for a week or two, just to make sure he’s not brewing anything. After that I’ll do regular tests, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about with this splendid young lad.’

The doctor had a copy of the morning paper in his bag. The reporter who had christened Winnie ‘the Bloody Barmaid’ had written an article based on all the nice things he had learned about her during his conversation with Johnny over the apples and cheese.

That afternoon, Johnny went round to the shop, where Hutch had begun repairing the damage from the fight. He went upstairs to collect his rabbit, the Peace Mug and Winnie’s special box of medals and documents. He remembered the twelve remaining ‘transformation’ letters under the mattress. Without regret, he put the postal orders into their stamped addressed envelopes, ready to return them to the poor fools who so badly wanted to change their looks.

When he got downstairs, Hutch was taking delivery of the evening papers. He cut the string on the bundle and opened out the top copy.

‘Hey, Johnny, take a look at this,’ he shouted.

There was a picture of Frederick Bennett on the front page. The headline was in bigger type than usual. Johnny could read it from the other side of the shop:
LOCAL SQUIRE ON MURDER CHARGE
.

‘But that’s not right,’ said Johnny. ‘I told them. Mrs Langford was the killer, not Bennett.’

‘It’s a different murder,’ said Hutch, reading out the strap-line on the lead story. ‘
Actress’s body found in wood
. You were right, Johnny. Bennett got his girlfriend out of the way.’

‘What else does it say?’

‘Not much. Remember what that reporter said when your mother was arrested? Once they’ve charged someone, the papers aren’t allowed to print everything they know.’

The bell jangled as the battered shop door opened. ‘I’m glad you were paying attention,’ said a familiar voice. It was the reporter. ‘You’re right. There’s a lot of detail that will have to wait for the trial.’

‘Like what?’ asked Johnny.

‘Like the fact that the link to Bennett was confirmed by the blanket the body was wrapped in. It matches one that’s still in the back of his car.’

Johnny remembered slumbering under that blanket on the journey back from Wales. He shuddered.

The reporter continued. ‘The body was found in a wood more than twenty miles away. It chills me to think of it, but I may have seen the mud from that journey being washed off Bennett’s car.’

Johnny recalled the scene outside Bennett’s house too, but he said nothing.

‘Apparently the body was in such a state that they had to identify it from the necklace in one of her publicity photos.’

Hutch flinched. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, reminding the man that a child was present.

The reporter cast his eye around the shop and changed the subject. ‘I see you’re getting straight again,’ he said.

Hutch nodded. ‘I suppose you want to use the phone.’

‘No, I haven’t come here to work,’ said the reporter. He took out his wallet and put two £5 notes on the table. ‘I came to contribute towards the repairs, and to give Johnny this.’ He handed over a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. ‘Open it carefully,’ he said. ‘It’s made of glass.’

Johnny tore off the wrapping. It was the photograph of his father, in a beautiful new tortoiseshell frame. Hutch came over to have a look. ‘He was a grand man, your dad,’ he said, holding the picture up alongside Johnny’s face. ‘I can see the likeness. He would have been proud of you.’

‘I should never have taken it,’ said the reporter, ashamed. ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me.’

‘Mum will be pleased to have it back,’ said Johnny curtly. He couldn’t really find it in himself to forgive the theft.

‘Since I’m here, Johnny,’ said the reporter, taking out his notebook, ‘I wonder if there’s anything you’d like to tell me about Mr Bennett? A contact of mine
in the police tells me you’ve been very helpful, giving them leads.’

‘I’ve nothing to say,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m not supposed to talk to anyone until after all the trials are over.’

‘He’s right,’ said Hutch, holding the door open. ‘I think it would be best if you kept your distance for the time being, don’t you?’

‘My source had some nice things to say about you too, Mr Hutchinson.’

‘Oh, really?’ said Hutch, surprised.

‘He didn’t go into details, but I gather we have you to thank for that complaint about the advertisements being withdrawn. Reading between the lines, I’d say someone had a word with the man behind PO Box Nine.’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Hutch.

‘Of course not. I understand. You have a duty of confidentiality as a postmaster.’

‘Sub-postmaster,’ said Hutch.

‘Let’s not split hairs. If the adverts are going to stop, I thank you.’

Johnny said nothing as the reporter slapped him on the arm in a friendly gesture of farewell. ‘So what’s next for you, son?’ he asked.

‘I’ll be going back to school soon.’

‘And then what? When you leave school? Has this business given you a taste for detective work? Are you going to join the police? Or go into journalism perhaps?’