The police station was in uproar.
“So which one of you clots is responsible?” Benton said, bouncing the door back on its hinges to land on the wall with a resonant bang. Was he to face a warmed up dinner three nights in a row, damn it?
Sergeant Bloore had been elected spokesman. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, sir. Constable Scott went to give him his evening meal and found him hanging in the cell. He’d torn up the blanket and knotted it to make a noose, then tied it to the window grill. Naturally, Scott immediately put down the tray and then started to fetch him down. But it was nothing but a damned ruse. The crafty fox had just made it look as if he was hanging. He kicked Scott in the head, then knocked him out cold with the bloody tray of all things. Then he sneaked into the back room and got out through the window.”
“Time?”
“Six-thirty as near as we can make out, sir. We discovered Constable Scott not long after, but by then Clarke had fled. It’s a bit of a disaster, I know, sir, seeing as he’s up before the magistrate in the morning. This time tomorrow he would have been safely banged up in a top security jail.” Bloore jerked his head self-assuredly, and added, “He won’t get far. We’ll catch him before morning. It’d be a shame for him to miss his appointment. We’ve pulled everyone back in for the search. I’ve taken the precaution of making sure everyone’s got a copy of his photograph. No, he won’t get far with all the recent publicity.”
“Are all his usual haunts covered?”
“First thing I saw to, sir.”
“Road blocks set up?”
“Covered!”
“How’s Scott?”
“Got a bad headache but he’ll live. The doctor seems to think there’ll be no permanent damage.”
“Well then, I’ll bugger off back home. Let me know as soon as you’ve collared him. And mark my words, Bloore, it had better be before I retire to bed. Clear?”
“As crystal, sir.”
*
It was pig’s trotters tonight. For once Tommy just couldn’t face the thought of them. He was outside the chip shop enjoying a bag of chips and fish bits with his friends. He had already done the shopping for Alfie earlier in the day, following the same procedure as before. This time just one bag of consumables was hidden in the shed at home ready for the late night pick up. Only he had it in mind to make the trek a little earlier tonight, just as soon as darkness fell, since he hadn’t got to sneak out of the house carrying anything. If asked, he would tell Mam and Dad he had run out of fags and was just nipping along to the off licence.
Smacking his lips, he screwed up the paper and, being good for once, tossed it in the litter bin, yesterday’s headline and Alfie’s name soaked in vinegar. “Must go,” he said, “I want to pick up the evening paper, and Cartwright’s’ll be shut in five minutes.”
“Hey, Tommy. Hold up a min. What would you do if you saw Ronnie Clarke?”
“Turn a blind eye, I reckon. After all, he’s one of Alfie’s mates.”
“But they’re saying he’s a dangerous lunatic. Everyone’s saying it.”
“Codswallop! He’s no more dangerous than our Alfie. And anyhow, you can’t believe anything Lenny Holdcroft says. I should know, I went to school with him. And I know him well enough to know that he’d be hard put to fight his way out of a paper bag. If truth’s known, I bet the little weasel’s just smarting from losing a fair fight. Must go. Night all.”
Tommy set off at a smart pace for the paper shop, the steel tips on the toes of his boots clicking rhythmically on the pavement. And he didn’t give either Ronnie Clarke or Lenny Holdcroft a second thought
*
In an effort to put Lizzy in a better mood Lenny and Morris took a turn at the kitchen sink with the dinner dishes, leaving her to retire early to the parlour with her knitting. Andrew and Rayne, taking the puppy with them, went off to the wood shed to make him a bed. Andrew soon found a box and knocked out one side.
“Make sure there’re no splinters left, Grandpa.”
“Trust me. By the time I’ve finished it’ll be fit for one of the Queen’s corgis.”
“D’you think he’ll be big when he grows up?” Rayne was nuzzling the puppy’s neck and constantly being rewarded with licks of its rough tongue.
“Hard to tell with mongrels. He’s got long, spindly legs that’s for sure.”
“But he’s a smashing dog, isn’t he, Grandpa? Look at his cute little face.”
“Oh, he’s a handsome enough fellow right enough. And with the proper training, he should turn out to be a real good guard dog for you. I reckon your mam’ll be a lot easier in her mind once she realizes that.”
“Can we take him for his first walk tomorrow?”
“Heavens, no! He’ll need vaccinating first against distemper and the like. You won’t be able to take him further than the garden for the first few weeks.”
Rayne was disappointed but readily agreed with Andrew when the risks lurking in every blade of grass – and grain of sand, knowing Rayne’s preference – were pointed out to him.
*
Rayne’s bedtime. When they bedded Patch down for the night, Andrew placed a small clock beneath the blanket, telling Rayne that the dog would think the tick was the beat of its mother’s heart.
“This old blanket’s hardly fit for a king. King! That’d be a good name.”
“Stick to Patch. Changing the name might invite bad luck.”
“Right you are, Grandpa. D’you think Mam’d make him a nice soft pillow if I asked?”
“Give her an extra hug before you go up, and then slip it to her real sweet like. If she doesn’t say no outright, Patch’ll have his pillow by morning, I reckon.”
“Thanks, Grandpa. I’ll share him with you. But no one else, mind. Be a good boy, Patch. Nighty-night.”