Perseverance Street (27 page)

‘Think well,’ said Charlie, still in his venomous Irish accent, ‘because after ye’ve told me what yer know, yer staying wid me until I find the lad, and if I don’t find him alive yer a dead man, so y’are.’

‘OK, OK. I promise he’s not dead. Look, I sold him to one of the Italians … oh, Jesus, what’s his name?’

Charlie knew he’d scared
Randle witless and that it was probably his fault that the man’s memory was failing him. But he also knew from experience that Randle had so far told him the truth. He tried another method of interrogation. Break the questions down into easy-to-remember answers.

‘Ye mean an Italian soldier?’

‘Yeah … real fascist bastard when you got to know him.’

‘How much did you sell him for?’

Hesitation, then. ‘Two thousand pounds. Jesus, man! You can’t expect me to turn my nose up at that sort of money. It’ll buy me a decent house.’

‘OK. What rank was he? Was he an officer?’

‘Hello?’

The shout came from Charlie’s right. He looked through the trees and saw a group of dark figures fifty yards away, advancing on them. Charlie cursed under his breath. Another shout came.

‘Are you OK over there?’

Whoever it was had no doubt heard Randle’s screams. Charlie thought he’d selected an area where they wouldn’t be disturbed late at night, but he hadn’t allowed for night fishermen.

Randle screamed, ‘Help me!’ His voice was hoarse but loud enough to carry to the approaching men.

Charlie stepped away from him, cursing under his breath. The men were now running towards him. He ran off down the river bank, his intention to lead them away from his van. He looked back. If they found it and stayed with it he was lost. They’d reached Randle and it seemed that a couple of them had stayed with the distressed sergeant, but there were at least four in hot pursuit, two of them way out in the lead. Sprinting had never been Charlie’s strong point, but he was agile. His motto in extreme situations was: Do what you do best. A few yards to his right was a big sycamore, shielded at ground level by a bush. He darted behind the bush and leaped up to grab one of the lower branches, pulled himself up with ease and shot up the tree like a monkey. The chasing men were all shouting, masking any sound he made. By the time they’d rounded the bush he was halfway up the tree, still as stone, trying to control his breathing. Beneath him two men arrived, one of them shouting.

‘Which way did he go?’

‘It’s got to be that way.’

They set off, heading further
downriver. Two more arrived and headed after them. Charlie waited for a few seconds before climbing down, dropping silently to the ground and heading for his van, hoping that Randle hadn’t had the presence of mind to mention the incriminating vehicle to the men with him. When he got to the van there was no one about. He could hear Randle’s whining voice from down by the river, maybe fifty yards away.

He opened and closed the van door as quietly as he could and hoped the engine would fire first time. Sod’s law, it didn’t. He cursed and tried again. The starter motor was snarling into the silent night air giving him away to anyone within a quarter of a mile, and still the engine didn’t start. He could hear loud voices and the sound of approaching men. If the engine didn’t fire this time he’d abandon the van and scarper. It was a very bad idea but the only one on offer. He pressed the starter again. The engine turned over, slowly. He kept the starter button depressed. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw two men emerge from nearby trees, running towards him. The engine was spluttering into life just as they reached the van. He was nursing the accelerator as they banged on the side. He knew if he pressed it too quickly the engine would die. He shielded the side of his face with his left hand as someone tried to open the passenger door. But he’d had the presence of mind to lock it. He encouraged the engine with a low curse.

‘Come on you bloody thing!’

The engine came to life. He depressed
the clutch and used his right hand to put the van into first gear, his left hand still shielding his face. Someone was kicking at the side panel. He’d covered up the firm’s lettering with brown paper and sticky tape to hide it from inquisitive eyes and he was hoping they wouldn’t think to tear it off, but they were only interested in getting at him; this beast who’d been trying to drown a poor man in the river. The wheels spun on the grass and the van moved away, very slowly, churning up mud. One of the men stood in front of it but jumped to one side when it became obvious that this murderous driver wasn’t going to stop for him. Men were running alongside him. He moved up into second gear as the wheels took a firmer grip. The men dropped behind. With his lights turned off, so they wouldn’t illuminate the number plate, Charlie drove back along the cart track by the light of a half-moon, but he’d operated under worse conditions. He turned on to the road and switched his lights on. As he drove off, an adrenalindriven grin creased his face. It’d been a while since he’d put himself in such a tricky position. No immediate threat to his life but a very real threat to his immediate future – many years of it, probably.

Who the hell were these
men? Probably night fishermen, he concluded. Had they managed to read his number plate? No, not in that light. It was pretty grimy to start with, almost unreadable by daylight never mind in the dark. Tomorrow morning he’d give the van a good wash. Clean all the mud off the tyres. Make it look as if it hadn’t been off-road for quite some time. Throw his boots away, so they couldn’t match his footprints to the ones he must have left. In fact get rid of every stitch of clothing he’d been wearing. It had been a close call, but had it been worth it?

He still didn’t know where Michael was but he was fairly certain Randle was telling the truth due to the extreme pressure he’d been under. The man had thought he was going to die if he didn’t tell the truth and he wasn’t a man trained to withstand torture to the point of death; nor had he any good reason to do so. Some brave men might have gone to their deaths under such pressure; men willing to sacrifice their lives so that loved ones might live, but Randle was a cheap crook who’d committed the most heinous of crimes for personal reward. His own life was the most precious thing he had. Under such pressure he’d have given away military secrets that might have seen any number of his comrades die rather than sacrifice his own life.

He’d been telling the
truth all right. Michael was alive and had been sold to a wealthy Italian soldier who wanted a son to take home to his wife. Yet the Italians had left Eden camp a year before Michael’s abduction. But he was sure that Randle had had the truth scared out of him.

Charlie’s heart was still pounding as he headed towards Shipley. All that violent play-acting and the near-miss at the end had taken it out of him. He gathered and arranged his thoughts and worries as he’d done so often in the past. One thing you must do, he said to himself, is to send Ogden Bernard Beakersfield the outstanding pound note. He thought of the drunken old reprobate who had led them in the right direction and the thought made him smile to himself and lifted his spirits. To keep in good spirits was essential for survival.

He arrived at four in the morning after alerting Lily and Dee of his imminent arrival by phoning them from a call box. He parked the van around the corner from Dee’s and walked quickly to her back door which was already open. The two women were waiting for him. Charlie sat down to tell them what he’d found out.

‘First of all he told me Michael’s alive – and I believe this.’

Lily felt a flood of uncontrollable tears rush down her cheeks.

‘So, what happened exactly?’ Dee asked him.

‘I put the absolute fear of death in him,’ said Charlie, ‘and I’m sure what he told me was the truth. The problem was that just as we were getting to the lowdown we were disturbed by a group of fellers and I had to scarper.’

‘What did he tell you?’ asked Lily through her tears.

‘Well, he admitted taking
the boy and he told me why. He did it for money – two thousand quid to be precise. He sold him to some wealthy Italian soldier. Trouble is I didn’t get the Eyetie’s name. He couldn’t remember it, which might have been my fault. I put him in a state of very severe shock, which didn’t help the memory one bit.’

Lily wondered how Charlie had managed to do that but decided not to ask.

‘Another few minutes and I’d have had the feller’s name,’ Charlie went on. ‘I think they must have been fishermen. Why can’t they do their fishing during the day like civilised human beings?’

‘Maybe they were poachers,’ suggested Dee.

Charlie shook his head. ‘I doubt if poachers would have been so keen to make themselves known.’

‘So,’ said Lily, who wasn’t interested in the fishermen. ‘You’re saying Randle stole my son from me to sell to an Italian prisoner?’

‘Something like that,’ said Charlie. ‘The trouble is that all the Italians left the camp a year before Michael was taken.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Dee.

‘It means we have another mystery on our hands, but at least we know the boy is definitely alive and possibly living in comfort somewhere. What’s more I think he might well be still be in this country. The Italians are being repatriated but I don’t think he’d take the risk of taking Michael with him so soon after the war’s over. I think he might want to let the dust settle a bit, then sneak him over to Italy.’

‘If that’s the
case he’d have to be living in some sort of closed Italian community,’ said Dee. ‘An English boy living with an Italian man’d stick out like a sore thumb.’

‘More likely he’s already in Italy,’ said Lily.

‘Perhaps,’ said Charlie, ‘but he’s still alive, Lily, and in no danger. Hold on to that thought. He’s just with the wrong people.’

‘Like Christopher,’ said Lily.

‘At least we know where Christopher is,’ said Charlie.

‘I need to see Christopher, Charlie. I need to hold him.’

‘I understand that, Lily.’

Charlie had a strength about him that Lily found uncommon in such a young man. From it she gained strength of her own. She gave his hand a grateful squeeze.

DS Bannister tracked Charlie down
to his mother’s house in Wetherby, a few miles north of Leeds. It was the evening of the morning Randle had been attacked. Charlie’s mother, with whom he lived, was out when Bannister asked the inevitable question.

‘Where were you between the hours of two o’clock and three o’clock this morning?’

‘Why would you want to know that?’ Charlie asked, innocently.

‘Because a serious crime was committed at that time and I need to eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘You mean I’m a suspect in some crime or other? What sort of crime?’

As an ostensibly innocent man Charlie knew his rights.

‘It’s just a matter of procedure, Mr Cleghorn. Sergeant Bernard Randle of Eden camp was assaulted in the early hours of this morning. I’m aware that you had a grievance with him and I just want to eliminate you.’

‘Assaulted? Any life-threatening injuries – or is that too much to hope?’

‘Just tell me where you were?’

‘You know when Lily accused
him of assaulting her? Where did he say he was at the time?’

‘He was at home with his wife. Mrs Randle verified this.’

‘Well, with me it’s a very similar story. At two o’clock this morning I was with Lily Robinson and Delilah Maguire and they’ll verify that, Sergeant. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Lily and Dee live in a three-bedroom house. We had a bedroom each. We’d been up until at least two o’clock wondering how to persuade you police people that Randle is the man who abducted Lily’s son. Is there any other reason why you suspect me?’

‘Is that your van outside?’

‘Technically it’s a firm’s van but I have the use of it.’

Charlie’s van was pristine clean. Not a speck of mud on it.

‘Do you always keep it that clean?’

‘I have a dirty job, Sergeant. If I don’t wash the van regularly you’d hardly be able to see it for dirt. My dad’s a stickler for clean vehicles. A dirty vehicle gives the firm a bad name. Why do you ask?’

‘Randle says he was thrown into a van that smelt of cordite, which I understand is a propellant for guns. Do you have a use for cordite in your business, Mr Cleghorn?’

‘Yes, I find it has its uses.’

‘But not to your normal demolition contractor – more to someone who’s learned his skills in the army.’

‘I did all my explosives certification training before I went into the army, Sergeant Bannister. My dad taught me everything I know.’

‘Not quite everything, I suspect. If
I inspected your van would I detect the smell of cordite?’

Charlie laughed. ‘I think you’d detect all sorts of smells, Sergeant. What I smell right now is the smell of Randle trying to frame me.’

‘Really? I’m not sure that Randle ever knew you were in the demolition business. I certainly didn’t tell him that you were. Why would he make that connection?’

‘Perhaps us turning up at his house in a van marked
Cleghorn Demolition
might have given him a clue.’

Bannister winced at this sharp answer to what he thought would be a tricky question. Neither of the two witnesses who had chased the van remembered seeing any lettering on it.

‘Is he in hospital or anything?’ Charlie asked.

‘He’s in Scarborough hospital for observation.’

‘Pity the
police
didn’t keep him under closer observation, Sergeant. It could have saved Lily a lot of trouble.’

Bannister knew in his bones that Charlie was lying, despite the fact that Randle had said the man who assaulted him was Irish. He’d checked on Charlie’s military background, as far as he was allowed, and had learned that, among many other attributes, Charlie was an expert linguist; and linguists are usually able to master different accents.

‘Did Randle give any reason for this assault, Sergeant?’ Charlie asked innocently. ‘Does he think it could have been anything to do with him attacking Lily?’

‘Mrs Robinson’s missing son was the apparent reason for the assault, which is why I’m here.’