Women on the Home Front (97 page)

‘I'm onto it, I swear,' Walter Purvis whispered into the phone. ‘And you shouldn't have rung me here. How did you get this number?' He was standing in the hallway of his home, throwing nervous glances over his shoulder. His wife poked her head out of the kitchen to frown crossly at him. He gave her a sickly smile and a little wave.

‘Never mind about any of that,' Rob said. ‘You're starting to piss me off, Walter. When we last spoke you said you'd need only a few more days to have things under control.'

‘I
will
have it under control,' Walter hissed, covering his mouth in panic in case his wife was listening. ‘But Kennedy's a slippery character. I've been trying to get him on his own … it's a delicate situation … as you must appreciate … not something that can be brought up in the office with others present … I have to investigate then approach him carefully in case he blabs once he knows the game's up …'

‘Don't give me excuses, Walter,' Rob sighed. ‘Give me results. I'm expecting to hear in a couple of days that they're gone 'cos if I don't, I'm getting a mob to shift 'em …'

‘No, no, don't do that, all hell might break loose,' Walter interrupted.

‘I'm sure it will, Walter, that's the idea …'

‘Coming, dear,' Walter piped as his wife's greying perm appeared again and she mouthed to him that his tea was getting cold. ‘I've got to go. I'll speak to you in the week.' He put down the phone with an unsteady hand then used it to push his wispy hair back from his perspiring brow. Pinning a smile to his face he entered the dining room.

The moment he spied his quarry Walter Purvis hastened out from behind the newsvendor's stall where he'd been loitering and strode towards him. He'd known Kennedy was off out on his dinner break as he'd heard him in the office making arrangements on the phone. At last he'd been presented with an opportunity to collar him away from flapping ears and have it out with him.

‘Need to speak to you, Kennedy …'

The younger man glanced sharply at Walter. ‘Oh, hello, sir,' he said. ‘I'll pop along to your office this afternoon.' When Walter stepped in front of him to halt him Kennedy added, ‘Can't stop now; meeting somebody for lunch.' He tried to step past his stout middle-aged boss.

‘That's going to have to wait,' Walter said, grabbing his elbow. ‘This is urgent.' When Kennedy gave him an impatient look, Walter decided to use his trump card. ‘It's about the Whadcoat Street job,' he said quietly. ‘I believe you might have some explaining to do there …'

Kennedy's expression transformed immediately and a mix of guilt and defiance narrowed his eyes. ‘What about Whadcoat Street?'

‘Yes, indeed, what about it?' Walter muttered with a significant raise of his eyebrows. Having glanced about for somewhere private he noticed an unoccupied bench set on a rectangle of green that was screened by trees. ‘Let's go over there and have a little chat about things and see what we can come up with.'

Kennedy reluctantly followed him then perched on the edge of the wooden slats, gripping together his hands. To escape Walter's fixed stare he examined his nails. ‘I hope this won't take long, Mr Purvis,' he began. ‘I'm already late …'

The look his boss gave him promised him he'd take as long as he liked. Walter was becoming more confident that he had rattled Kennedy, and that made him sure he was right in thinking he'd been taking backhanders off pikeys. ‘Where have you been siphoning the money from to pay O'Connor?' When he got no immediate response, and Kennedy shuffled his feet on the gravel, staring into space, Walter smiled. ‘I think you've been booking it down to the Stroud Green job because it's coming in under budget and it'd be a shame to let good money go to waste, wouldn't it?'

Kennedy suddenly coughed and fidgeted as though he might jump up and run. Some of the boys who Walter arranged to meet in clandestine places had the same gauche air about them. He found it rather endearing.

‘I'll make it easy for you, Kennedy. I feel responsible, you see, as I recommended you and helped get you promoted.' He patted the young man's knee. ‘Now I know you've done wrong but I'm prepared to think you've been foolish rather than corrupt. Besides, I don't want this bouncing back on me any more than you want to feel the full weight of an investigation into false accounting, misappropriation of public funds and so on, and so on. Of course, I'm sure you wouldn't want to perjure yourself either if it went to court, so I'm going to suggest a way around things.'

‘Why?' Kennedy croaked after a lengthy silence.

Walter blinked at him. ‘I thought I'd explained: I don't want to get my knuckles rapped for singing the praises of a miscreant, neither do I want to see you arrested for taking backhanders and doling out
jobs for the boys
…' Walter hoped Kennedy was appreciating the distinction, and who had the most to lose. ‘I took a look at your file, you see. I noted your father's family hail from Ireland, although, of course you'd never know it as you have a rather common London accent.' Again he tapped Kennedy's knee, gave it a little squeeze. ‘Perhaps you've been doing a favour for an uncle … cousin?' Walter's head trembled enquiringly as he waited for an answer.

‘Yeah, that's it,' Kennedy muttered.

‘Family, eh? Who'd have 'em?' Walter chortled. ‘We can put this right,' he soothed. ‘Of course, you'll need to tell O'Connor his services are no longer needed. And then hand over to me the cash he's paid you.'

‘I've spent it.'

‘Oh, dear,' Walter sighed. ‘Well, we'll have to think of another way you can repay me for saving your bacon …'

‘Kind of you, sir.' Kennedy gave his boss a sour look but a moment later placed a hand on his knee.

Walter beamed at him. ‘That's the spirit.' He got up and buttoned his mac. ‘It would be best if you left the department; perhaps a shift sideways. I'll arrange a transfer for you. Enjoy your lunch.'

‘You've not been fighting with the Irishmen again?' Grace frowned at the bruise on Chris's forehead, then brushed a finger along his grazed cheek. It wasn't the first time she'd seen him looking battle-scarred.

‘It's nothing; it happened earlier in the week,' Chris replied quietly, as he saw Shirley emerge from the kitchen. ‘You ready?'

‘Dear me … you've been in the wars, Christopher!'

‘Had a bit of rubble fall on me at work, Mrs Coleman,' Chris slickly said. He knew Shirley already thought him a rough handful; if she knew the truth of it she'd probably banish him from darkening her doorstep.

‘Cup of tea before you go out?' Shirley offered brightly.

It was unusual for Christopher to enter the house. Shirley was aware that Grace normally made sure to be ready and waiting when he pulled up, so she could simply call goodbye when shutting the front door. Her daughter wanted to keep her and Christopher apart to avoid any awkward questions arising. Grace was always telling her to stop prying, because when there was something to know, she'd come out with it.

But Shirley thought she had a right to find out a few things now, seeing as they'd been going steady for months, and her daughter invariably returned home after a night out with Chris looking dishevelled and dreamy-eyed. A bit of kissing and cuddling didn't bother Shirley, so Grace's tousled hair and swollen rosy lips were overlooked. She waited up for her daughter's return to run an eagle eye over her for tell-tale undone buttons and a skew-whiff skirt. Grace was more than old enough to be a mother herself, but to Shirley she was a spinster daughter who was too headstrong to heed advice, and might allow a horny charmer to get her into trouble and ruin her future.

After Hugh had thrown Grace over, Shirley had panicked, wondering if her daughter had been daft enough to go all the way with the two-timing swine before getting the ring that mattered on her finger. She'd had visions of Grace with a swollen belly in a few months' time and no man in sight to marry her.

Eventually Grace had had enough of her nagging and had shouted at her she was still a virgin so she had nothing to worry about, and in future to mind her own business. But that had been some years ago. Grace was now twenty-three and had been left behind by most of her contemporaries. Shirley had seen a wistful look flit over her daughter's face a few weeks ago when they'd bumped into one of her old school chums pushing a pram in Wood Green High Street. Shirley knew such longing could be more dangerous than a randy, determined man, in addling a woman's wits.

Considering Christopher was a handsome rogue, with a nice line in patter – Shirley remembered his smooth, confident manner the first day she'd seen him at Matilda's – he no doubt attracted lots of girls. Shirley thought it likely he'd been trying it on with her daughter and what she wanted to know was how successful he'd been, and whether he'd yet asked Grace to get engaged. Shirley knew she'd have mixed feelings if he had; she still thought her pretty daughter could do better for herself than a good-looking builder from a notoriously bad family.

Grace worked in an environment teeming with respectable men, with good pay and prospects, who arrived home clean and tidy. Hugh might have been a bad lot but at least he had turned up to take Grace out in a smart Hillman saloon rather than a dirty Bedford van.

For fifteen years Wilf Coleman had came home reeking of raw meat, because he'd worked in a food-processing factory until the war gave him a way out. Shirley had never let him near her until he'd bathed, and even then the odour seemed to cling to his flesh and turn her stomach. She'd had high hopes of Grace doing better for herself …

‘Where're you two off to then?' Shirley asked, hoping to delay them to slip in a few probing questions.

‘Wood Green Gaumont; “The Lavender Hill Mob” is showing.'

‘Oh, that's a good film. I saw that with Miriam after work one evening; we did have a laugh.' Shirley came further into the hallway. After doing her shift in a Woolworth's store in Wood Green High Street she occasionally had an evening out at the Gaumont, followed by a bite to eat, with a colleague.

She ran a look of grudging approval over Christopher's attire. Shirley had to admit he turned up to take Grace out smelling fresh and looking smart though she had noticed bruises on his face a couple of times. Being as he worked on a building site, and his father had recently come a dreadful cropper, she was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt about the rubble, rather than jump to the conclusion that he'd been brawling.

‘Better be off,' Grace said, edging Chris towards the door. She'd noticed her mother scrutinising Chris's face. ‘If we don't get going we'll miss the start …'

‘Don't be late back!' Shirley grimaced disappointment as the couple disappeared. She'd not managed to find out a thing.

‘Fancy some chips?'

‘No thanks … I had a big tea before I came out.' Grace smiled.

They'd just descended the steps of the Gaumont surrounded by the dispersing audience who'd enjoyed the antics of Alec Guinness and the rest of the madcap cast of ‘The Lavender Hill Mob'. They started walking in the September dusk towards Turnpike Lane, where Chris had parked the van.

Grace slipped a hand through his arm and gave it a squeeze. ‘You're a convincing liar, you know. This evening when you told my mum rubble fell on you I almost believed you myself.'

‘Rubble did fall on me earlier in the week,' he insisted, giving her a subtle smile.

‘Maybe it did, but I'd put money on it that somebody's knuckles left those marks on your face.'

He stooped to brush a kiss on her cheek. ‘Shhh … they're almost healed and I've had enough listening to the lads going on about the pikeys all day long. Shall we go for a coffee? Or stop off at a pub?'

Grace shook her head.

‘What d'you want to do?'

‘Go for a drive?'

He slanted a look at her. ‘Right … now if I reckoned you'd suggested that 'cos you were gonna ask me to park up somewhere nice and quiet so we could …'

Grace gave a tiny laugh and averted her pink face. ‘You've got a one-track mind, Christopher Wild. Can't we just park up and have a talk about things?'

‘No …'

‘Why not?'

‘'Cos I know what
things
you want to talk about,' he said levelly, ‘and every time that subject comes up we end up arguing. I had enough nagging off the lads at work today.'

Grace withdrew her arm from his and, halting by a brightly lit shop window, rested her back against the glass. She gazed up indignantly at him, noting impatience in his expression, but choosing to ignore it.

‘Don't snap at me; it's not my fault you've got a lot of problems at work,' she said tartly.

‘I didn't say it was.'

‘And I don't
nag
you about contacting your mum. I just think you should.'

Christopher spun on his heel away from her and took out a packet of Players. He had a cigarette alight in a matter of seconds.

‘You can have a fight every day of the week yet you can't find the courage to drive to Bexleyheath to say hello to your mother?'

He walked away a few steps, dragging deeply on the cigarette. ‘Come on … I fancy a cold beer.' He shot out a hand behind him for her to take.

But Grace stayed where she was despite feeling a bit chilled. She had on a pretty sleeveless summer dress with just a cardigan over it. But the night air was fresher than she'd anticipated. Wrapping her arms about her middle she settled back mutinously. She wasn't going to let him ignore her. Too often he changed the subject, or started kissing and caressing her, when there was an issue he wanted to avoid talking about. If he used the latter method of shutting her up, it worked a treat for him, she realised sourly.