Ironmonger's Daughter (64 page)

‘Are they known to us?’

‘Toby used ter be a totter. ’E got done fer drunkenness, an’ the daughter Lillian’s bin done twice fer solicitin’. Nufink else though, far as I know.’

‘Remember the watch we kept on that area, sergeant?’

‘Fer Dennis Foreman?’

‘That’s right. He came from Ironmonger Street originally. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve gone fishing for tiddlers and caught a salmon.’

‘Yer mean?’

‘Yes, Sergeant, Dennis Foreman. He could be our Mr Smithers. It might be the reason the man is still at large. He could be living right under our noses. I’m going to take notice of my ulcer, Sergeant. What’s our immediate strength?’

Sergeant Carter grinned. ‘Quite a few eating in the canteen. Then there’s a few constables we could pick up on the way.’

‘Let’s get things moving, Sergeant. I want to be in on this one myself. We might put this station on the map at last.’

 

PC Wilshaw looked at his pocket watch once more and stroked his jaw. What are they doing in there? he wondered. They’ve been in with the old girl for over half an hour. Maybe it would be better to go over and let the plain-clothes boys know the whereabouts of Smithers. Trouble is, it might upset the applecart. If Mr Smithers happens to be watching from the window and sees a policeman knocking on the Toomeys’ door he might do a runner. No, it would be better just to observe. After all, orders are orders, he told himself.

The sudden arrival of half the establishment of Dockhead police made the beat bobbie think that it was time to act. Couldn’t they trust two burly officers to sort it out without sending down most of the station? he asked himself. Well it was about time he pointed the lads in the right direction, he decided as he crossed the road. In the turning everyone had come to their front doors. People had begun to congregate in small groups and they made fun of the serious-looking policemen.

‘Oi, what’s our Lil done now?’ someone shouted out.

Someone else said, ‘’As Toby done ole Marie in then?’

Another wag yelled out, ‘Yer got the wrong turnin’, it’s Sidney Street yer want. That’s where Peter the Painter lives.’

PC Wilshaw was trying to get someone to take notice of him but the police were already swiftly engaging in a houseto-house search, led by Chief Inspector Coggins. Widow Pacey’s house was not left out, and the police looked into her parlour and paid no attention to the three empty teacups which stood on the table. By now Dennis Foreman had managed to spreadeagle himself in a roof gulley that ran back from the street between the ramshackle houses. He could not be seen from the ground or from any of the windows, and for the moment he felt safe.

Toby Toomey walked back from the Tower Bridge Road market feeling hard done by. The shopping bag was heavy and he hoped he had bought everything on the list that Marie had given him. It was bad enough having to do a bit of overtime on Saturday morning, he thought to himself, without coming home and having Marie moaning at him about her aching back and groaning that she could not manage a heavy bag. Lillian, too, seemed to have suddenly developed a bad back and like a fool he had volunteered to get the weekly shopping. Well, if I’ve left anything out it’s just too bad, he thought. I’m not running back down that market. Marie’ll have to lump it.

As he walked out of John Street, Toby saw the commotion. Police seemed to be everywhere, and his heart sank as he slowly realised that the activity was centred around his own house. With a feeling of dread he quickly walked up to his front door and the two constables standing guard gave him a suspicious look.

‘It’s all right, I live ’ere,’ Toby scowled as he walked in through the open doorway.

Inside Chief Inspector Coggins was talking to Marie and, as Toby stepped into the parlour, he got a warning look from his frightened wife.

The inspector eyed the diminutive character and nodded. ‘You’re Mr Toomey I take it?’ he asked formally.

‘Yes, sir. I’m ’im,’ Toby replied, looking rather bothered.

‘You know why we’re here I take it, Mr Toomey?’

‘No.’

‘Well we’re waiting to talk to a Mr Smithers, your lodger.’

‘Oh, an’ why’s that then?’

The inspector ignored the question. He turned to one of the plain-clothes officers. ‘Will you get that idiot Wilshaw in here quick as you can,’ he said irritably.

The officers hurried out and Coggins turned back to Toby. ‘I understand Mr Smithers is your cousin. Is that so?’

‘No, not really, sir.’

‘But you said he was,’ Coggins said, looking at Marie.

Marie stuttered as she tried to speak and the inspector sighed. ‘Look, I think you should be aware that harbouring an escaped criminal warrants a long prison sentence. I hope I’m making myself clear.’

Toby took off his cap and scratched his head. ‘Well, sir. It’s like this yer see. I’ve bin on to ’er fer months now ter take in a lodger. Yer see, I don’t earn enough wages ter get a night out even, an’ I told ’er if she took in a lodger it would ’elp me out a bit.’

Coggins sighed heavily. ‘Get on with it, man.’

‘Well yer see,’ Toby went on, ‘we get lots o’ callers askin’ if there’s any rooms goin’ an’, when Mr Smithers knocked at me door, I ’appened ter be in. Well, I took the bull by the ’orns an’ told ’im ’e could ’ave the room. Now when she come in,’ Toby continued, jerking his thumb in Marie’s direction, ‘she raised the bleedin’ roof. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about at first, but when she explained fings I see a bit clearer.’

‘I wish I did,’ the confounded inspector mumbled.

‘Well, yer see, our Lil’s got a bit of a reputation wiv the blokes. Nufink bad, yer understand, but me ole woman – I mean Marie – reckoned the neighbours would talk. They’d most likely say she ’ad ’er fancy man livin’ ’ere. Now Marie an’ me ’ave always bin respectable. We don’t want people finkin’ ovverwise, so I said ter tell everybody Mr Smivvers is me cousin. That way it stops the tongues waggin’, if yer see what I mean.’

Chief Inspector Coggins ran his fingers through his receding hair. It would do no good to implicate this family in harbouring a criminal, he told himself. He would never get a conviction after a judge heard that story. The man even looked like he was telling the truth, although Coggins suspected otherwise.

The detective had returned with PC Wilshaw who was looking a little agitated. ‘I told ’em Smithers ’ad gone in the bagwash woman’s ’ouse, sir,’ he said, puffing out his chest.

Coggins waved the explanation away with a sweep of his hand. He took out a pencil and a folded sheet of paper from his coat pocket and sat down at the table with a deep sigh. He unfolded the paper and spread it out in front of him.

‘Come here, Wilshaw,’ he beckoned. ‘Now describe Smithers.’

The constable rubbed his chin. ‘’E’s about five seven, dark complexion an’ ’e wears thick glasses. ’E goes about twelve stone, an e’s got brown eyes an’ a bushy moustache. Also e’s got smarmed down ’air, parted in the middle.’

‘Right, let’s see what we can make of this,’ Coggins said, setting to work with the pencil.

When he had finished with the wanted poster he turned it around and pushed it towards Wilshaw. ‘Well?’

The constable’s eyes were popping. ‘It’s ’im! It’s William Smithers!’

Chief Inspector Coggins stood up. ‘You’ve had an escaped criminal as a lodger Mrs Toomey,’ he pronounced sternly.

‘We could ’ave bin killed in our beds!’ she moaned, and then fainted away.

Toby looked down at the prostrate figure of his wife and stifled a grin. Marie had never fainted before in her life, but he had to admit it looked real. They helped Marie back into her chair and put some smelling-salts under her nose.

Coggins gathered up his briefcase and turned to Toby. ‘We’ll be taking Smithers’s belongings with us,’ he said. ‘There will be uniformed officers in the street, so don’t worry about him coming back. It won’t be long now before we get our Mr Smithers.’

Out in the street Coggins held a briefing. ‘Now listen. We’ve established that Mr Smithers is Dennis Foreman. Our man’s bottled up somewhere in the street. He can’t get out through the rear of these houses because the backyards look out on to a high wall. It’s too high, even for Foreman. I’ll take a guess our man’s in that factory. There’s a public shelter in the yard, that’s why the gates are kept open. Foreman could have slipped in there without being seen, what with all the sightseers that were standing around earlier. Now, the factory is surrounded by a twelve-foot wall and it’s topped with barbed wire. He could be inside that factory somewhere and there’s no way out for him except through those gates. We’re going to do a thorough search and we’re going to pay particular attention to that shelter. Now for Christ’s sake be careful. We don’t know yet if he’s armed.’

As soon as the police had left number one carrying the lodger’s belongings, Marie made a full recovery. For the first time in years she wanted to hug Toby. He had handled the situation perfectly. For a few horrible moments she had seen the doors of Holloway prison closing behind her. Even Lil was still shaking and Marie marvelled at how calm her husband seemed.

In fact Toby was secretly worrying about the parcel Dennis Foreman had secreted in the backyard wall. He decided that at the first opportunity he would get it to Joe Cooper. If anyone knew where Dennis was right now, it would be him. Toby went to the window and could see the police milling around outside. The two burly constables were still on guard at the front door and Toby swore under his breath. He would not feel safe until that package was out of the house. He had taken it from the hiding place on one occasion when Dennis was out of the house and had opened it furtively. The revolver had frightened him and he had carefully replaced the parcel in the wall, half expecting the gun to go off. If the police found that gun and the money they would all be in trouble.

 

Connie Morgan had been doing her washing in the backyard when Ada called out. ‘There’s somefink goin’ on at the Toomeys’, Con. There’s police everywhere.’

Connie stood with Ada at the front door watching the commotion, and it was not long before Mrs Adams walked up to them, cuddling one of her cats.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ Ada asked.

Mrs Adams shrugged her shoulders. ‘Somebody said Toby’s done ’is ole woman in. Mrs Richards ’eard it’s that Mr Smivvers they’re lookin’ for. I always reckoned ’e was a bit shifty.’

Connie had to admit to herself that she felt sorry for the man. He had always seemed pleasant and polite, although his piercing eyes had made her feel uncomfortable. Joe Cooper had told her that he was an old friend and he had got into some trouble years ago, but to keep the knowledge to herself. He must have done something bad, Connie thought as she watched the police going in and out of the Toomeys’ house. She stood at the door talking to Ada for some time and then went back to get on with her washing. The water had become cold and she went into the scullery and scooped a pail of boiling water from the stone copper to pour into the tin bath out in the yard. As she scuffed the washing up and down on the scrubbing board Connie heard a noise which seemed to come from the direction of the roof. She looked up just in time to see a leg disappearing over the guttering above Widow Pacey’s house. A few minutes later Joe came out into his yard and looked over the high wooden fence.

‘Busy, Con?’ he called over.

Connie nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face. ‘Is it Mr Smivvers they’re looking for, Joe?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘There’s police everywhere. They’re searchin’ the factory yard.’

Connie raised her eyes to the roof. ‘I ’ope they didn’t bring ladders,’ she said quietly.

He looked hard at her. ‘Yer know where ’e is then?’

‘I just seen a leg goin’ over the roof. I knew it ’ad ter be ’im. What they want ’im for, Joe?’

‘It’s a long story, Con. I’ll tell yer later.’

 

The sun had dropped below the rooftops and the evening sky turned red. The police had finished their search of the factory yard and they started to clamber over the ruins of the buildings. They checked the shored-up block entrances and stood together, debating their next move.

Insepector Coggins scratched his head.

‘Well he’s still in the street somewhere,’ he said. ‘It’ll be dark in a few hours and then we’ve got problems.’

One of the detectives came up, brushing dust from his trousers. ‘He might have slipped away by now,’ he grumbled.

Coggins turned to the man with an expression that forbade criticism. ‘My ulcer tells me different. We’ll get him, don’t worry.’

‘Where can he be, sir? We’ve turned the place inside out. He ain’t a bird. He can’t fly away.’

Coggins suddenly slapped the man on the back. ‘Roberts, you’ve given me an idea!’ he exclaimed, his eyes narrowing. ‘I want ladders. At least two, and long enough to reach up to that roof. I bet our man’s nesting up there somewhere. Go on then! Hurry, man!’

Above the street Dennis Foreman rested his head against the cool slates and thought about his next move. It would be useless to climb down into Widow Pacey’s house, he realised. The police could make another search at any time and it would look bad on the old lady if he was found there. There was only one thing to do, he decided. Quickly he unlaced his shoes, tied them together and hung them around his neck. Next he took off his socks and stuffed them into his trouser pockets. Slowly and carefully Dennis eased his way up the attic roof on to the slate-covered slope. His bare feet allowed him a grip and, breathing heavily with the strain, the fugitive inched his way along the side away from the street, a few inches below the topmost ridge. Dennis realised that he could not be seen from down in the turning nor from the backyards, but he moved very slowly and carefully. If a slate became dislodged and tumbled into one of the yards it could alert the police and the game would be up. His breath came short and he repeatedly stopped to rest. Finally, aching and sweating he reached a position directly above the Toomeys’ house. For a while he rested, then slowly he eased his way down the slope until he reached the guttering. Gritting his teeth Dennis slid his legs over the edge and felt the drainpipe. Clamping it with his knees he steadied himself, and then gradually he shinned down into the yard. By the time he reached the ground his feet were bleeding and his trousers had ripped against the brick. He crept over to the tin bath and gently took it down from the wall. Quickly he opened the package and took out a revolver, which he tucked into his belt. Breathing heavily, he put his hand back into the bundle and brought out a large wad of notes. Suddenly the yard door opened and Lillian walked out with a bundle of washing in her arms. As she saw the shadowy figure looming in front of her Lillian screamed in terror and fell over the tin bath.