Backstreet Child (52 page)

Tony could feel the passion in the old lady’s words. ‘She ’as told me about certain fings,’ he said. ‘She told me about Josephine Galloway.’

Nora’s eyes clouded as she mumbled the name. ‘Josephine. I loved that girl like she was me own,’ she told him. ‘The poor dear’s end was so tragic. There was nuffink I could do ter prevent it. Nuffink anybody could do. The damage was done the day she was conceived.’

Hargreaves’ secretary looked into the room. ‘The car has arrived, Mrs Flynne,’ she informed her.

Tony got up to leave and Nora beckoned him to bend down to her. ‘There’s somefink I wanna say before yer go, young man,’ she said in her frail voice. ‘Don’t ferget ter give my love ter yer muvver, an’ tell ’er ter come an’ see me soon as she’s able. Now this is important, an’ I want yer ter promise me yer’ll remember what I’m gonna say.’

Tony nodded. ‘I promise.’

Nora fixed him with her dark eyes. ‘If yer ever find the bad blood between the two families starts ter mar yer ’appiness, or that of yer young lady, or if ever the Galloway money troubles yer for any reason, then yer must come ter see me. It’s very important. D’yer understand?’

‘I understand, Nora. I won’t ferget,’ Tony said, patting her hand.

The driver arrived and he made sure that the old lady was tucked snugly in the blanket before he wheeled her from the room, and as he spun the chair round to face the door, Nora nodded sternly at Tony. ‘Remember yer promise,’ she reminded him.

All through the bitter winter the nightly bombing went on. Sometimes the weather deteriorated enough to prevent an air raid but as soon as it improved, the raiders were back. Other cities were being targeted as well and on some nights London was spared. During February, more and more people began to sleep in their own beds, only going to the shelter when the air-raid siren sounded. On some nights the bombing was light and some folk ignored the air-raid warnings altogether.

Maurice Salter worked a tiring shift system and whenever he was able to, he slept in his own bed, ignoring the siren and pulling the bedclothes over his head as he went back to sleep. Maurice’s three daughters preferred to hurry down to the shelter when the siren went, however, and one night when he was snoring loudly through an air raid he was shaken awake by a very agitated Brenda Massey.

‘Maurice. Maurice! Maurice!’ she cried. ‘Mum’s ’ad a fall.’

The sleepy man roused himself and yawned as he looked up at Brenda. ‘A fall, yer say? Where is she?’

‘She’s lyin’ at the foot o’ the stairs groanin’. I fink she’s broken somefink!’ Brenda gasped.

‘’Ow did yer get in?’ Maurice asked as he slipped his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for his trousers.

‘Yer door was left ajar,’ she told him.

‘It’s those bleedin’ gels o’ mine. I could ’ave bin ransacked,’ he growled. ‘Not that there’s anyfink werf takin’ in this ’ouse.’

Brenda was getting impatient. ‘Never mind that. Mum might be badly ’urt,’ she said anxiously.

Maurice slipped his bare feet into his shoes and hurried down the stairs behind Brenda. Outside, there was a full moon and flashes of gunfire raked the clear sky. A dull drone of aircraft sounded in the distance as the two hurried along Page Street to Brenda’s house. The door was open and as Maurice stepped into the passageway he saw the old lady lying on her back with her feet resting on the bottom stairs. Her long dress was smoothed down over her thin legs and her hands were clasped together, as though she had lain down to sleep.

‘I’m done for,’ she groaned as Maurice bent over her.

‘Where’s the pain, luv?’ he asked.

‘Me legs. It’s me legs,’ she moaned.

Maurice very gently ran his fingers over the old lady’s shins and ankles and could find nothing unusual. ‘Top part or bottom part?’ he asked her.

‘All over,’ Granny said, looking up at Brenda with a wicked glint in her eye.

Maurice leaned back on his haunches. ‘I can’t go touchin’ the top of ’er legs. You’ll ’ave ter do it,’ he told Brenda.

Granny winced as Brenda slid her fingers down her thin thighs.

‘I can’t feel anyfing wrong,’ Brenda said.

Maurice noticed the sly grin that hovered for an instant on the old lady’s face and he decided that she had been up to one of her antics. ‘If yer ask me, she’s laid down there on purpose,’ he whispered to Brenda. ‘If she’d ’ave fallen down the stairs ’er clothes would ’ave bin round ’er neck.’

Brenda had to agree with him. ‘What we gonna do?’ she asked him.

‘Fetch an ambulance,’ the old lady groaned. ‘I could be dyin’.’

‘They’re all busy,’ Maurice replied gruffly, turning to Brenda. ‘Don’t worry though, I know what ter do. I’ll run round ter Billy Bennett’s place. ’E’s got a barrer. We could tie yer mum on it an’ run ’er up ter the ’ospital. While I’m gone, though, yer’d better tuck ’er up in a blanket. We don’t want the mice runnin’ up ’er dress while she’s lyin’ there.’

Maurice winked at Brenda as he went out of the door, ignoring the old lady’s protestations. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in a minute,’ he called out.

He went back to his house and put the kettle on. Ten minutes later he walked back into the Massey house to find Granny sitting comfortably in her favourite chair. ‘ ’Ow are yer, Gran?’ he asked pleasantly.

‘None the better fer yer askin’,’ she growled at him. ‘Barrer indeed. I’d never live the shame down.’

‘C’mon, luv, don’t be obstinate,’ Maurice said blithely. ‘Billy’s bringin’ the barrer round in a few minutes. Let the’ospital give yer the once over. It won’t take long.’

‘Poke the bleedin’ barrer up yer arse,’ Granny shouted. ‘I told yer once, I ain’t gettin’ on no bloody barrer.’

The sound of the all-clear drowned Granny’s further comment and Maurice sighed. ‘Well, I’m goin’ back ter bed. Brenda, can you go an’ tell Billy Bennett we don’t need the barrer after all?’ he asked.

Brenda hid her smile. ‘All right,’ she replied, following Maurice out of the house.

Five minutes later, after a quick cup of tea, Maurice and Brenda were tucked up beneath the sheets. ‘D’yer fink we’re wicked?’ Brenda asked him.

‘Yeah,’ Maurice replied, turning towards her.

Carrie sat with Joe discussing her most recent employee.

‘It’s not as though Frank Dolan’s incompetent,’ she remarked. ‘It’s just the way ’e acts sometimes.’

Joe scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘I know what yer mean,’ he replied. ‘The ovver night ’e didn’t seem as though ’e wanted ter go ’ome. ’E was talkin’ ter me fer ages after ’e’d parked ’is lorry up. Bundle o’ nerves ’e is, too.’

Carrie shook her head. ‘I was askin’ Paddy Byrne about ’im an’ ’e said Frank Dolan was tellin’ ’im that ’e ’ad seven kids. ’E told me ’e ’ad six. Paddy reckons ’e’s a bit strange.’

‘Well, as long as ’e does ’is work satisfactory there’s nuffink ter worry about,’ Joe said.

‘I s’pose yer right,’ Carrie answered, getting up to turn on the wireless for the news broadcast. ‘It’s just a bit strange. Fer a start, ’e don’t look nowhere near fifty, an’ then there’s that bag’e always carries about wiv ’im. I was wonderin’ if ’e’s sleepin’ rough or in lodgin’ ’ouses.’

The newsreader’s deep voice interrupted their conversation to say that the call-up had been extended once more, and all men born in 1903 would be required to register within the next few days.

Joe grinned as he listened. ‘They’ll be comin’ fer Frank Dolan next,’ he joked.

Joe’s words proved to be prophetic, for two weeks later the police called at the Salmon Lane yard.

‘We understand that you’ve got a Frank Dolan working here as a driver,’ the policeman said.

Carrie nodded. ‘Yes, that’s right. Why, what’s ’e done?’

‘What time is he due back?’ the policeman asked, ignoring her question.

‘’E’s on the food contract an’ it’s all local work. ’E’ll be back in the yard inside the hour, I would say,’ Carrie answered.

The two policeman nodded and left.

‘What’s that all about?’ Joe asked as he came over from the lorry shed.

‘They was askin’ about Frank Dolan,’ Carrie told him. ‘I ’ope’e’s not in any trouble.’

At twenty minutes past four Frank Dolan drove into the yard and climbed down from the lorry. ‘Shall I park it up, Joe?’ he called out.

Carrie came out from the office and beckoned him over. ‘Frank, I’ve ’ad the police in a short while ago,’ she said. ‘They was askin’ for yer.’

‘Oh my Gawd!’ he gasped, grabbing his large canvas bag.

Just then the yard seemed to be filled with policemen, some of them in plain clothes. Two jumped from a police car but were not quick enough as Frank threw his bag in their path and scampered to the rear of the yard. As they regained their footing, others were running into the yard and giving chase. Frank Dolan climbed on top of the shed and clambered across the roof which backed onto an alley. As he was about to jump down, he saw two policemen in the alley waiting. His escape route was blocked. He jumped back down into the yard and was immediately pounced on by the policemen. For a short while he struggled violently, but when he realised that it was useless he let himself be handcuffed and bundled into a police car. As the car drew out of the yard, he nodded to Carrie and Joe who were standing by the office.

‘What’s ’e wanted for?’ Joe asked a detective who seemed to be in charge of the operation.

‘He’s a deserter, for a start,’ the detective replied.

‘But I registered ’im at the labour exchange an’ I phoned up’is last employer fer a reference,’ Carrie said looking puzzled. ‘They told me ’e was put off because the firm lost all their lorries in the bombin’.’

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ the policeman replied. ‘Frank Dolan was put off in November, but that fella wasn’t Frank Dolan. We found the real Frank Dolan a few weeks ago. He was lying in a back alley off the Old Kent Road with his head caved in. The man we just arrested was Arthur Threadgold. He’s wanted in Liverpool, Manchester and Bristol, and God knows where else. You’ve been lucky. Arthur Threadgold’s a very dangerous man.’

‘Tell me, as a matter of interest. Why did it take yer so long ter get onter this Threadgold character?’ Joe asked. ‘If ’e killed Frank Dolan an’ assumed the man’s identity, yer should’ve been able ter find ’im when ’e was registered fer work at the labour exchange. ’E’s bin wiv us fer some time now. An’ anuvver fing.’Ow comes ’e knew where Frank Dolan last worked?’

The detective buttoned up his coat and dusted a sleeve with the palm of his hand. ‘Dolan, Threadgold and another character by the name of Thomas Westlake all lodged at the same working men’s hostel in Tooley Street and the three of them got pally,’ he began. ‘Threadgold borrowed Dolan’s driving licence and identity card to get the job with you and then he returned them to him. Dolan knew that Threadgold was a deserter, but he wasn’t worried. He intended to go up north to work in munitions. Anyway, one night Dolan and Westlake were playing cards at a pub in the Old Kent Road and they fell out over the stakes. Westlake followed Dolan outside and hit him over the head with a brick. He dragged the body round into an alley nearby and then took Dolan’s wallet and money. There was nothing on the body when it was discovered, which made the identification difficult. Dolan wasn’t working at the time he was killed and he apparently had no dependants.’

‘So nobody reported ’im missin’,’ Joe cut in.

The detective nodded. ‘Exactly. All we had to go on was the victim’s blood group. Anyway, last week we arrested Westlake for being drunk and disorderly and as is usual we logged the man’s possessions. He had a leather wallet on him with the initials “F.D.” embossed in gold leaf on the front. When we asked Westlake about it he told us that he’d found the wallet in the street. Fortunately for us our desk sergeant noticed a small dark stain on the outside of the wallet and he suggested it might be blood, so we sent it away and the results proved him right. What the test also told us was that the blood was group O, and that there was a thumb print in the stain. The thumb print belonged to Westlake, but his blood group was AB. He must have handled the wallet before the blood dried on it.

‘We were aware that we had an unidentified murder victim in cold storage and when we checked the files we found that that man’s blood group was O. Anyway, when we confronted Westlake with the evidence we had, he admitted everything. He also told us about the deal Threadgold did with Dolan. Maybe he was hoping that the judge would take that into consideration. The rest was easy. We checked with the local labour exchanges and found that a Frank Dolan was registered as working with your firm.’