Ironmonger's Daughter (63 page)

‘Well two did,’ the sergeant growled.

PC Wilshaw was on his feet in a flash and he snatched the wanted poster from the constable’s hand.

‘Let’s ’ave a dekko at that,’ he said excitedly.

Two lines had been drawn through the poster and the word ‘Deceased’ was printed on it in red ink. As PC Wilshaw studied the photo his brow creased in a frown.

‘I knew that name rung a bell,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve bin puzzlin’ over that name an’ it was stuck up in ’ere all the time.’

‘We took it down when we got the update through,’ the sergeant butted in. ‘That was the instructions. We’re on a clean-up campaign, Wilshaw, didn’t yer know? Anyway, what yer gawkin’ at it for? The case is closed, and the geezer lived at Barkin’. Nufink ter do wiv us.’

‘What I’m sayin’ is, William Smithers lives in Ironmonger Street.’

The sergeant raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘What, ’im?’

‘No, not ’im. William Smithers.’

‘Well I s’pose there’s more than one William Smithers. After all, it’s a common enough name.’

Consternation was showing on PC Wilshaw’s face. ‘Yeah, but the William Smithers in Ironmonger Street is only stayin’ there. ’E comes from Barkin’, accordin’ ter Toby Toomey.’

‘Who’s Toby Toomey, Wilshaw?’ the sergeant asked with a sigh.

‘The bloke ’e’s lodgin’ wiv.’

The station sergeant sat down heavily and cleared the papers from his desk with a sweep of his arm. ‘Right. Now what we gotta establish is, whether or not your Mr Smithers is a pucka Mr Smithers, or is ’e usin’ the deceased’s identity card.’

‘Right,’ grinned PC Wilshaw.

The station sergeant picked up the phone. ‘Joan? Get me Barkin’ nick, will yer?’

Chief Inspector Coggins stared up from his desk at the two men in front of him. ‘Barking said that the deceased was identified by his brother and the identity card was not recovered, that right?’

The sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir. They gave us the ID number from the register.’

The inspector rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘There’s the possibility of a mistaken identification of the body. You sure your Mr Smithers is not the one in the photo, Wilshaw?’

‘Two different people, sir.’

‘Right, sergeant. I’ll get someone round to Ironmonger Street right away. You get back to the beat, Wilshaw, and stay in the vicinity. You might be needed.’

 

A bright sun shone down in the little backstreet as Dennis Foreman walked slowly along towards Joe Cooper’s house. The turning was busy as women came and went with their Saturday shopping and people stood chatting together on their front doorsteps. Children played in the gutter, and at the far end of the turning the knife grinder was bent over his spinning stone, working the treadle with his foot. Dennis knocked on number sixteen and Joe came out carrying his coat. ‘It’s a nice day fer a pint, Will,’ he grinned.

‘Where we goin’? Fancy the Compasses?’ Dennis asked.

‘If yer like. I’ve gotta stop off in John Street though. I wanna put a bet on.’

The two left the street just two minutes before PC Wilshaw arrived and, as he took up his position opposite Ironmonger Street, the beat bobby was feeling rather pleased with himself. His observations had been productive, and it would certainly stand him in good stead with the guv’ nor, he felt sure. The constable rocked back and forth, his eyes searching the length of the turning opposite. Everything looks in order, he thought. There’s old Mrs Adams nattering away as usual, and there’s that peculiar-looking bagwash woman standing by her front door, arms folded as always. Don’t get many strangers in that bloody turning. Even the locals give it a wide berth. Can’t say as I blame them. Hold tight, who’s that? Oh, it’s only the tallyman. Poor sod. Where’s the plain-clothes brigade got to? Taking their time, as usual. PC Wilshaw took out his silver pocket watch and studied it, squinting his eyes. Ten minutes past twelve. I hope they don’t leave it too long, he thought. I’m off at four.

At five minutes before one o’clock the two detectives walked into the turning, glancing briefly across to where the constable was standing. They rat-tatted on the Toomeys’ front door then looked up at the upstairs window. Inside the house there was panic.

Lillian came hurrying down the stairs, her eyes open wide and her mouth hanging open. ‘Quick! It’s the police!’ she said breathlessly.

‘The police! Oh my Gawd! They’re after ’im,’ Marie gasped, peeping through her clean net curtains.

Lillian stood transfixed in the parlour doorway. ‘What can we do?’ she said helplessly.

Marie stepped back from the window. ‘I dunno if they’re coppers or not,’ she said. ‘They’re in plain clothes.’

Lillian started to shuffle around in her anxiety. ‘They’re tecs all right. I see ’em come up ter the door from the bedroom winder. I reco’nise the big ugly one. ’E was the one who nicked me that time.’

‘What, the one who said yer was whorin’? I’ll ’ave somefink ter say ter that monkey’s uncle.’

There was a second rat-tat and Marie winced. ‘Go on then. Yer better let ’em in,’ she said to her daughter.

Lillian crept down the passage and gingerly opened the front door.

‘We’re police officers,’ the taller of the two detectives said. ‘We’d like to talk to a Mr William Smithers. We understand he rents a room here.’

Lillian put on her most innocent look. ‘Yes, that’s correct. Mr Smithers lives upstairs, but ’e’s not in. I fink ’e’s gone shoppin’.’

Marie had come into the passage and stood staring over Lillian’s shoulder. ‘What yer want ’im for?’ she asked sharply.

‘It’s just routine enquiries. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Can we come in? We’d like to look at Mr Smithers’s room.’

Marie bit on her lip. ‘I don’t know about that. Mr Smithers might be upset about people lookin’ in ’is private room.’

The ugly detective sighed. ‘We can get a search warrant, lady. Now can we take a look?’

‘Well, if yer must. It’s the first door top o’ the stairs,’ she said crossly, omitting to tell them about the low ceiling.

When the two detectives went up the stairs Marie put her finger to her lips. ‘Where’s Dennis gorn? We’ll ’ave ter try an’ warn ’im,’ she said in a whisper.

‘I dunno, Mum. ’E could be anywhere.’

Marie and her daughter sat listening to the creaking ceiling with serious expressions on their faces.

Marie put her hand to her cheek. ‘I only ’ope Toby don’t come in wiv the shoppin’ yet.’

They heard footsteps on the stairs and the two officers came into the parlour, the taller one rubbing his head. ‘Well everything seems in order,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if we waited for a while? Mr Smithers might be back shortly. It would save us another journey.’

Marie nodded. ‘Sit yerselves down. I’ll put the kettle on.’

The detective raised his hand and glanced quickly at his silent partner. ‘No thanks. We’ve just had ours.’

The other policeman could not remember having had a cup of tea recently but he guessed his senior must have a reason for refusing. He stared around the room and his eyes rested on Lillian Toomey’s crossed legs. She gave him a smile and licked her top lip suggestively. The silent detective coughed into his closed hand and transferred his gaze to the ceiling. Occasionally his ugly partner glanced at his wristwatch and consulted the clock on the mantleshelf. Marie stayed out in the scullery, watching the kettle and trying desperately to think of some way to warn Dennis Foreman.

 

Saturday lunchtime was not the best time to drink in the Compasses, Dennis was beginning to realise. Women came in with their shopping bags and moaned about the food shortages, and market traders rushed in and elbowed their way to the counter, aware that for every minute they were away from their stalls customers were most likely being undercharged by the minders. The place was too small, Dennis decided, and he looked at Joe. His friend was listening to an elderly lady who had just in come from the market.

‘No bleedin’ oranges, no bleedin’ bananas, an’ no bleedin’ pomegranates,’ she was saying. ‘It looks bleedin’ bare on them stalls. I can’t remember when I last see a banana, or a bleedin’ pomegranate. The poxy apples look maggotty as well. I dunno, I’ll be glad when this bleedin’ war is over.’

‘What yer got fer the ole man’s tea, Jane?’ the woman next to her asked.

‘A scrag o’ mutton, an’ if ’e gives me any ole cheek about it, I’ll aim it at ’im.’

Dennis finished his pint and looked at Joe. His friend seemed eager to get away from the two women and when Dennis caught his eye he drained his glass and nodded with a wry smile.

The two walked slowly through the market, hands in their pockets and caps askew. ‘That beer tasted a bit watery, Joe,’ Dennis remarked. ‘It’s gettin’ ’arder than ever ter get a decent pint o’ beer.’

‘The Dolphin sells a good pint,’ Joe said, a grin breaking out on his face.

‘Yeah that’s true, but the company ain’t all that clever though, is it?’

They had reached the corner of Ironmonger Street. A few yards away, standing in a shop doorway, the beat bobby tried to look unconcerned. He had his orders to observe only, unless Mr Smithers tried to leave the turning in a hurry. He watched as the two men stopped outside the wardens’ post and he noticed that the bagwash woman had her pram parked outside the Toomeys’ front door and appeared to be leaning against the wall. What’s going on there? PC Wilshaw asked himself as he saw William Smithers take the woman’s arm and help her along the street, followed behind by Joe Cooper who pushed the pram. The three of them disappeared into Widow Pacey’s house and the constable stroked his chin thoughtfully.

Had the beat constable been able to see inside the front door he would have witnessed a remarkable recovery.

Widow Pacey had straightened up and shrugged Dennis off. ‘There’s nufink wrong wiv me bleedin’ leg,’ she said with a bright flash of her deep eyes. ‘I wanted ter keep yer from goin’ in the Toomeys.’

Joe had parked the pram at the bottom of the passage and as he ambled into the small parlour he started. ‘What’s all this about, girl?’ he asked, scratching his head.

Widow Pacey looked at Dennis Foreman, a knowing look on her large red face. ‘Yer might ’ave fooled most of ’em down the turnin’, Dennis Foreman, but yer didn’t fool me,’ she said with a wizened smile. ‘Which was just as well, ’cos there’s a couple o’ rozzers in the Toomeys. Two plain-clothes blokes they was. They’ve bin there since one o’clock. I see’d ’em when I got me last load o’ bagwash. Anyway, while yer decidin’ what yer gonna do about it I’ll put the kettle on. I s’pose yer wanna cup o’ tea, or ’ave yer bin on the piss?’

‘We’d love a cuppa, girl,’ Joe butted in.

Widow Pacey sat at the table with her arms folded facing the two men. ‘I twigged yer the moment I first see’d yer,’ she said. ‘Me an’ my ole man used ter kick yer arse when yer got lippy as a kid. Those scatty glasses an’ that smarmed-down barnet didn’t fool me fer a minute, Den. I watched yer grow up round ’ere. Funny, my ole man said yer was ’eadin’ fer no good. ’E could see it.’

Dennis grinned sheepishly. ‘Well fanks fer what yer did, luv. Yer saved me bacon, an’ I’m really grateful.’

‘Don’t yer be so sure. Yer ain’t out o’ the woods yet,’ the bagwash lady warned him, scratching her arm. ‘Anyway, drink yer tea, it’s gettin’ cold.’

Dennis looked at Joe. ‘Me stuff! I got that stuff stashed away there!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘I’ve gotta get it some’ow.’

‘What stuff, Dennis?’ Joe asked.

His friend gave the Widow Pacey a sideways glance before answering. ‘You know, and the rest o’ me money. It’s all wrapped up tergevver.’

Joe grimaced. ‘They’ve prob’ly searched the place. They must ’ave found it.’

Dennis laughed. ‘I don’t fink so. Toby showed me where ter stash it. There’s a tin bath ’angin’ up in the back yard. There’s a brick under it that pulls out. Toby’s bin ’idin’ a few bob there fer years, an’ Marie’s never found it.’

‘’Ow’re yer gonna get it wiv the law sittin’ in there?’

‘I dunno. I’ll ’ave ter fink o’ somefink.’

‘It’s gonna be tricky, Den. Yer gonna ’ave ter ask Toby ter get it, ain’t yer?’

The small parlour had become quiet as the three sat thinking. Suddenly the sound of police bells and screeching brakes shattered the silence. The two men jumped up and Joe looked through the net curtains. He could see three police cars in the turning. One was blocking the entrance to the street, and the other two had parked outside the Toomeys’ house. Uniformed and plain-clothes policemen were spilling from the cars and entering the front door.

‘They’re on to yer, Den!’ Joe said loudly. ‘There’s dozens of ’em!’

‘Christ! I can’t stay ’ere. They’ll be searchin’ the ’ole street!’ Dennis said, holding the top of his head.

‘Yer can’t get out o’ the street, that’s a dead cert.’

‘What about the shelter?’ Widow Pacey asked suddenly.

‘They’ll check that,’ Dennis said heavily.

Joe glanced at Widow Pacey. ‘What about the roof?’

‘’E might be able ter get up there, long as ’e don’t break ’is neck in the process.’

Dennis ran out into the backyard and looked up at the sloping roof. ‘I’ll be able ter make it from that upstairs winder. What about me stuff though?’

‘Leave it ter me. I’ll fink o’ someway ter get it to yer,’ Joe said, pushing Dennis along the passage.

 

A short while before Chief Inspector Coggins had sent two of his men down to Ironmonger Street and he had sat thoughtfully staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly he had got up and opened the office door. ‘Sergeant!’

Sergeant Carter hurried into the office. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sergeant, my ulcer’s playing me up.’

‘Sir?’

‘When my ulcer starts I know things are not right. What was the name of that family Wilshaw said Smithers was lodging with?’

‘The Toomeys, sir.’