On the way to visit the Gibsons, Grace considered Stu’s statement he had seen Hans hanging about, as he put it, on the night of Ronny’s murder. Since Hans was Mavis’ regular visitor, his presence was nothing out of the ordinary, even if a boy like Stu, with a well-known axe to grind over his brother’s death, could be believed.
She would have to think it over later. Now she must talk to the Gibsons.
Once again she plied a door knocker in hopes of locating useful information. She supposed it was an acquired skill. In Noddweir, where people left their houses unlocked, she would simply push the door open a crack and call out.
This time she stood on the well-scrubbed step at the far end of Carter Street from Mavis’ home. By contrast to those cramped living quarters, the Gibsons lived in an upstairs maisonette, meaning they had the luxury of a couple of extra rooms and an attic.
What had Mrs. McPherson meant when she advised Grace to interview Charlie Gibson? “He had a long history with Ronny,” she had said but refused to say anything further, merely pointing out where the Gibsons lived as Grace departed.
The door opened and a grey-haired man Grace recognised from the air raid shelter peered out.
“Mr. Gibson?”
“That’s right. Police, is it? More scandal for the old wives to gossip about. Stop freezing your backside on the doorstep and come upstairs.”
She realized he was younger than she had taken him to be the first time she saw him. Mid-forties at most but prematurely grey. Grace followed him up a staircase fitted with a narrow strip of coarse carpeting and into the kitchen where a woman introduced as his wife sat at a table placing gifts into bags sewn from scraps of material. Two honeycomb tissue paper ornaments—one a scarlet bell and the other its twin but bright green—hung from the ceiling light, adding a meagre festive air to the noticeably chilly room.
“Well, Joan, seems we’ve been favoured with a police visit,” Charlie informed her. He pointed Grace to an armchair at one side of the fireplace. He didn’t sit but picked up a poker and stirred the dying flames in the grate. He appeared agitated, prodding the coals so awkwardly he spilled ashes out onto the hearth.
His wife didn’t bother to look up from her work. She was the woman Grace had seen with Charlie in the church crypt. “Me old man been fighting again, has he, miss? I keep telling the stupid bugger to control his temper. It’s caused us enough trouble as it is, and it don’t give a good example to the bairn.”
“It’s not about your husband, Mrs. Gibson.”
“Bloody right, it ain’t!” he said loudly, shaking the poker.
“Charlie,” his wife scolded, “put that down and don’t start yelling or you’ll wake Veronica up and she’s just gone off.”
Charlie reddened. He shook the poker again but it fell out of his hand and clattered at his feet.
“Children are always too excited to get to sleep on Christmas Eve,” Grace smiled, hoping to alleviate the tension.
Joan finally looked up. “Got bairns of your own, then?”
Grace admitted she did not, adding she was not married. To her surprise, Joan’s mouth tightened and she turned back to the parcels she was creating. “These are little bits and pieces for Veronica,” she explained. “We have a dolly’s pram Charlie bought off one of his friends, nicely repainted and hidden in our wardrobe. And sitting in it right now is a dolly I got. Clothes and everything. Saved up for ages to get it too. The bairn will be thrilled.”
“Never mind about that,” Charlie said. “The police don’t call unless they think you’re sitting in something and I don’t mean a pram. So what’s the story, Constable?”
Grace opened up her notebook. “I’m here about Ronny Arkwright. We’re interviewing everyone in the street. What can you tell me about him, Mr. Gibson?”
“By God, I could tell you a lot about that swine—”
“Charlie!” his wife said in a warning tone.
He ignored her and plunged on, red-faced with anger. “No, Joan, would you rather the constable heard gossip and half of it lies? Well, miss, Ronny and I have known each other a long time. In the old days we was marrers. Before the war we done business together.”
Grace looked up from making notes. “What kind of business, sir?”
“This and that. Bit of painting, collecting scrap to sell, repairing stuff, moving furniture, that sort of thing. Made good money too, but he was ever one for the tarts. Spent all his money on them. I kept telling him to save it while he had it but he took no notice. You canna do a thing with these young lads. Then he got engaged to Mavis down the street. God knows what she saw in him. She’s a canny lass.”
“Who likes to go dancing when her husband is away,” sniffed Joan from the table.
“Well, he’s away permanently and she can dance all she likes now. Where was I? Oh yes, telling the constable here about before the war. I done that stuff in me spare time, since I worked at the Elswick pit then. Ronny never seemed to be working that hard but he always had a well-stuffed wallet. Claimed he was lucky at cards. It’s true he always won when we played. He got pinched by the police more than once but like many a lass before her, Mavis thought she could reform him once they married. She’s had a sad time of it—”
“You’re rambling, Charlie,” his wife broke in. Turning toward Grace, she continued. “The point is, not long after Ronny and Mavis got married we found out Phyllis—our daughter—well, she had his bun in the oven. She was only fifteen at the time.”
“She said they used to carry on in the cemetery,” Charlie added in disgust.
“Then Veronica is your granddaughter?” Grace asked.
“Aye. But we’ve raised her to think we’re her mam and dad.”
“But surely her mother—”
“Phyllis had the bairn in her bedroom here, miss. A week later she stole the few coins I had in me purse, left Veronica behind and buggered off,” Joan cut in. “No idea where she’s gone and don’t want to know either.”
Grace wondered if Phyllis was the girl Mavis had mentioned.
“Aye,” Charlie said. “We’ve always done wor best for Veronica but now I can’t work like I could and things is tight, and that’s Ronny’s fault as well.”
His voice had begun to rise and Grace noticed his large hands had knotted into fists. “After Veronica was born, I went round and confronted the swine, asked him what he was going to do for her. He laughed in my face! Me, his bairn’s grandfather! And the next thing I knew he took me unawares and knocked me down! So there was a fair old fight but he didn’t fight fair. Got hold of me arm and deliberately broke it.”
He held up his right arm. It looked withered and the forearm was at an odd angle to the elbow.
Joan began to cry. “For God’s sake, Charlie, you’ll wake Veronica!”
“I see, Mr. Gibson—” Grace began.
“No, you don’t,” Charlie was now shouting. “Bloody doctor messed up, so me arm don’t work proper no more. No strength left in it, can’t straighten it. I had to leave the pit. Did you expect me to be another Tommy on the bridge, shivering in the wind and holding out me hand for charity? I got me pride. I want work. Now I have to spend me nights walking about telling fools to put their lights out and me days picking up odd jobs as best I can.”
A thoughtful Grace left soon afterward. It seemed there was quite a bit Mavis had not told her about Ronny, but was that surprising? They’d met only a few days before and what she had heard tonight was not the kind of thing a wife would talk about to a comparative stranger. But it certainly provided food for thought. Charlie did not appear to have realised his own words made him a suspect in the death of a man he so obviously hated.
From what seemed a great distance came the sound of singing. Christmas carols. The sound drifted in and out of her hearing as the cold breeze shifted, ebbed, and rose again. A church service? Carolers making the rounds?
When she dreamed of leaving Noddweir she never imagined spending her first Christmas Eve away from home questioning people about a murder. Then again, her childhood Christmas Eves were better forgotten. If her father chose to stay home and drink, or go to the pub and return drunk, it always ended the same way.
A chorus of “Deck the Halls” came ever so faintly to her ears. It made her think of the poor decorations in the home she had left. She could not tell from which direction the music came. Perhaps it was filtering down from Heaven.
***
Charlie Gibson stamped around the room in a fury. “You’ve got a mouth as big as Tynemouth, Joan! Why tell the police wor private business?”
“You said as much as me, Charlie. Everyone knows about Ronny and Veronica,” his wife shouted back. “Nobody knows where Phyllis is to check anything we say. So long as we stick to that, what can they do? She’s got your temper, Charlie, and plenty to be angry about with Ronny. He always had money but never gave us a penny for Veronica and what worries me is—”
A door opened and their sleepy granddaughter appeared in yellow pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “The noise woke me up, mam,” she complained. “Will you come and tell me a story if I go to bed nicely so I can be asleep when Santa comes?”