Eric was devastated to be hauled off to the police station once more. He had to make a daily check in at the reception desk after work as a condition of police bail. So why couldn’t they have waited until this evening? The only light spot in all of this was that they hadn’t turned up in a Black Maria – this time. He was having nightmares about being locked up.
Be that as it may, the absence of the Black Maria brought fleeting relief when he glanced up to see Constable Turner rolling into the yard and making a beeline for him. This time he didn’t even bother to speak to Mr Trindle first and merely threw Eric a quick, trenchant nod. The sight of Mr Trindle’s sour expression was enough to set Eric’s spirits on a downward spiral. And then the words ‘You’re wanted down at the station, pronto!’ sent them plummeting to an all time low.
Once again he was forced to go cap in hand to Mr Trindle and beg off work for an hour or two. Mr Trindle warned him that he wasn’t going to put up with this fandango for much longer, and that given the late hour it wasn’t worth him coming back today, thanks all the same.
Making his own way on foot to the police station, Eric alternatively seethed and fretted about what was in store for him. After all, he had told them everything he could. He had nothing of importance left to divulge, nothing more to give – unless they wanted his soul, which wasn’t so far fetched, he thought, remembering the devilish grilling he had endured from Inspector Benton the last time.
He was shown into the same dreary interview room as before where the inspector and his sergeant were already waiting for him. Eric likened Benton to a big slobbering vulture with his big hooked nose, beady black eyes and those horrible thick, wet lips with globs of spit seemingly permanently gathered at the corners as if he were salivating at the thought of devouring his next meal – namely Eric.
Inspector Benton dispensed with the niceties. “Park your backside,” he said, pointing to the empty chair. “An eyewitness has come forward to report that Jimmy Lecky was seen going into Myotts Warehouse on the day he disappeared. And he wasn’t seen to come out again. Is there anything you’d like to tell me about that?”
The tone of his voice and the way he put the question definitely sounded like an accusation, a veiled warning that the torture rack was awaiting Eric if he didn’t talk. Benton flung the date and time at him like a further indictment, adding, “So where were you at that time?”
“I do remember the day Jimmy Lecky went missing, sir.” Eric’s voice was firm, having decided that he wasn’t going to allow himself to be further intimidated. “I wasn’t at the warehouse that day. Alfie let me borrow his van to take me mother to see Aunty Violet, up in Newquay. She hadn’t seen her for –”
“What about Ronnie and Alfie? Did they ever mention Jimmy Lecky?”
“No, sir.”
“What about the warehouse? Did you see anything belonging to the boy there? Like a shoe, for instance. It’s the only item of clothing missing.”
“No, sir.”
His nostrils flaring, Benton suddenly changed tack. “Well you were there on the day when Alfie threatened young Rayne Holdcroft.”
For a moment Eric was thrown. “E-er, y-yes. But I don’t think he meant him any real harm. We were just about to load up and I think he was just worried about the boxes being seen. I know he’s a bit of a rough diamond but I don’t think he’d murder anyone, and certainly not a child.”
“Really! Well Borne’ll be charged with assault on Rayne Holdcroft to say the least. When we get to him it’ll take forever to get through the charge sheet at the rate we’re going. Did he ever speak about his spell in Korea?” Benson fired at him out of the blue.
“To me? No. I did ask him about it once. But he said it was a time he preferred to forget. And … and well, that was it really. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”
“Would it surprise you then, to learn that he murdered one of his mates there?”
Eric was clearly flustered and shocked as he absorbed this fresh accusation, his mind fighting the contradiction furiously. On regaining his composure, he said, “Yes, sir, it would. Only, you see, he let me go.”
Benton shrugged and flailed his arms mockingly. “So?” he sneered.
“Well, the way I look at it, if you’ve committed one murder, what does two or three more matter. You can only be hung once, right? I mean, that’s the way murderers think, isn’t it? I’ll admit he is a bit violent, and at first I did think he might want to do away with me when I told him I was going back to the blackies. You know, like he might fear me telling on him, so he’d have to shut me up permanently. But he didn’t. He never even threatened me. He let me go without any fuss.”
“And what about our vicious little friend in lock-up, Ronnie Clarke? We already know he’s capable of murder.”
“I don’t know about that. I couldn’t rightly say, sir. I hate his guts, that’s for sure. What he does to animals is murder of a kind in my book. I know what everyone’s saying about the fight in Fennel Wood with Lenny Holdcroft and his brother and all, but it’s not my place to say if he meant to murder them.”
Frustrated, Benton moved closer. Eric pressed his back into the chair as Benton leaned over him, glowering at him with a hawk-like grimace. Then Eric stared back in alarm as Benton drew back his lips in a cantankerous scowl and vigorously rubbed his nose. But when he began to flex his fists as if preparing to lay into him, Eric grabbed the edge of the table and started to get to his feet.
Throwing Sergeant Bloore a pleading look, he said, “T-that’s all I can tell you.”
“Sit down. We’re not finished with you, yet. Where’s Alfie, now?”
Eric felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and sat back down. “I don’t know, really I don’t. He might still be around, but the last I heard, he was making for London.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Derek Smythe.”
“When?”
“This morning. He called in at the blacksmith’s on his way to work. He told me that he’d got it off Tommy Borne not more than ten minutes before. Honestly, Mr Benton, that’s all I know.”
Benton scowled. “I’m always suspicious when people use the word honestly. All right. That’s it for now. You can go,” he spat, abruptly dismissing him. Benton backed off and turned to whisper something in Sergeant Bloore’s ear, whereupon the sergeant hurried out of the room. Eric had waited patiently for Inspector Benton to finish his whispered conference, then asked, “Have I got to come back at six o’clock to sign in? Only now I’m here it hardly seems worth coming back, given the time, and all.”
Feeling stroppy, Benton shook his head and told him he would have to come back at the specified time. Protocol must be followed. Then he stood blocking the doorway with his head cocked as if listening out for something specific. Just when Eric began to believe his escape would be thwarted indefinitely, the inspector finally stood aside and waved him out the door. But he followed closely on his heels. As they were going down the passage, Ronnie Clarke, flanked by two strapping constables, was coming along in the opposite direction. Benton watched closely as the two men were forced to pass each other, exactly as he had directed.
Eric was shocked. Ronnie Clarke had taken on the look of a wild man; his hair was sticking out in untidy spikes, his clothes were smutty and dishevelled and his normally angelic features were contorted in bestial rage. But it was the harsh coldness of his eyes cutting into Eric with frenzied hatred that really seized him with petrifaction as they passed each other. Not a single word was exchanged, but when Ronnie drew a finger across his throat and then fixed Eric with a jutting forefinger, it was as if he could actually feel the steel penetrating his flesh. His testicles shrunk to the size of peanuts as he halted and turned to watch Ronnie being led into the interview room. From the corner of his eye he caught the look of satisfaction on Inspector Benton’s face, and he began to tremble. His breath caught in his throat and he was suddenly overcome by a bout of dizziness. Eric stretched out his hand for the wall to steady himself, fearing he was on the verge of a panic attack. It was several moments before he felt sufficiently recovered to move his feet and make his way out of the police station.
Oh, how he rued the day he had agreed to work for Alfie Borne.
*
Home. Lined up against Lizzy like a determined crew of mutinous squaddies were Andrew, Morris, Lenny and Rayne – plus a bundle of brown and black fur with an incongruous splash of white on a floppy ear.
“I’m calling him Patch,” Rayne said defiantly.
All eyes were pinned on Lizzy, including the puppy’s, which even at this early stage seemed to recognize Lizzy as leader of the pack. But Andrew would prove to be alpha male. For despite all her protests, he was standing resolute in favour of Rayne keeping it.
For the only time that anyone could remember, Lizzy lost her temper, grabbed her coat and tearfully stormed out of the house, giving the door a resounding slam on the way out.
“She’s never forgotten that dog attacking her when she was little. I’ll go after her,” Morris said. “She won’t go far. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her round. We’ll be back in a few ticks.” And so saying, he too rushed off, not bothering to grab his jacket, fearful lest Lizzy shoot off out of sight before he had time to catch up with her.
“I’m keeping him!” Rayne shouted, full of himself. Then his defiant frame shrunk a little as the door closed softly behind Morris’s retreating figure. “I am keeping him, aren’t I, Grandpa?” he asked, his voice a little less certain, now.
“ ’Course you are, son. Like your dad said, your mam’ll come round. Just you wait and see. You’ll learn as you get older, son, women are always turning on the waterworks, sometimes for no reason at all. Anyway, after what you’ve been through these past few weeks, a puppy’s little enough reward as it is.” Turning to Lenny, he said, “Let’s get organized before she comes back. Nip round to your Uncle George’s and see if he’s still got that lead and dog bowl and other stuff. I’m sure he kept it all after Rex got run over.”
Lenny nodded and was the next to shoot through the door. While Rayne continued to pet the dog, Andrew turned his attention to the bubbling pots on the stove. He turned all the pans down, worrying that dinner would be ruined if Morris’s boast proved groundless. Then he set about laying the table. As he fussed with the cutlery, he kept up a running commentary, going through a string of instructions for Rayne to follow religiously on house training and cleaning up after the puppy, feeding it and – most important of all – making sure he kept it from under Lizzy’s feet.
When Lizzy and Morris returned just ten minutes later the puppy was miraculously behaving itself and sitting confidently on an old piece of blanket in a far corner of the kitchen. As Lizzy took off her coat she cast an outraged eye at the puppy, but then meekly sought out the comfort of her pots and pans. Behind her back Morris grinned and stuck his thumbs up.
Lenny barely warranted a glance from her as he came in clutching two chipped bowls and a worn leash. But the potato masher slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor when he spoke.
“Uncle George says that Ronnie Clarke has escaped.”