It snowed the day after Boxing Day, too late for Christmas when snow might have been appreciated. There was enough for Grace to leave footprints on the pavement on her way to the police station. She admired how the streets and rooftops were for once a clean white. The sky remained the dirty grey of despair.
The station was cold. Wallace was typing two-fingered on an ancient sit-up-and-beg typewriter, scowling near-sightedly at the form he was labouring to fill in. He looked up when the tinkle of the bell on the shop door announced Grace’s arrival. “Thank goodness you’re here. I can’t make out half of Baines’ scrawl. Why can’t he type his reports up instead of expecting us to do it?”
“Probably thinks it’s women’s work.”
Wallace grinned. “Now you mention it…”
“I never learned to type,” Grace informed him firmly.
Wallace’s eyebrows went up. Before he could say anything Grace asked if he’d noticed anything useful at the funeral.
“Apart from Sefton, a couple of Ronny’s old acquaintances attended it and by acquaintances I mean accomplices. I’m wondering how they would have known to be there to pay their respects if he hadn’t let them know he was back.”
“In which case might Ronny have been making plans with them?”
“Either that or getting ready to resume any business they’d been up to before he went into the forces. Of course they knew nothing, as usual.”
Grace went into the kitchen and brought back two steaming cups of tea. If Wallace had to do the typing at least she could fetch him tea. “Sefton came to see Mavis,” she said. “He was trying to find out if Ronny had left any unfinished business she might know about. She said no. The conversation wasn’t friendly.”
Wallace cradled his cup in his hands. “Warms me poor, abused typing fingers nice, this does.”
Grace ignored the hint. “What does Sergeant Baines think about it all?”
“He doesn’t seem all that interested.”
Two constables arrived, tracking snow into the room, and greeting Wallace while ignoring Grace.
“Don’t mind them.” Wallace remarked. “They’re bashful. The Dutchman’s story of how he got here appears to be correct, so far as it can be checked with the refugee people. Seeing as Holland is under Nazi control right now, we can’t find out anything from there. He may have had a criminal record. No way of knowing.”
Grace suppressed a wince at hearing Hans described as “the Dutchman.” She told Wallace about Hans’ return, where he had gone, and his reasons for flight.
“Running away certainly makes him look suspicious. On the other hand, with a bit of time a person can calm down and think up a plausible story.”
“He’ll be coming to the station to be interviewed.” She also hoped he wouldn’t say anything incriminating. He was not, after all, a native English-speaker. She made a mental note to check the Arkwright file for his statement in due course.
“What about Charlie Gibson?” she asked. “Just between us, he’d be my first pick as a suspect. There was that scene at Mavis’ house while Ronny’s body was still there.”
“Charlie has a legitimate grievance.”
“His daughter, Phyllis, has a grievance as well.”
Wallace laughed. “If that’s what you call a bairn in Shropshire! A grievance! I’m not surprised she took up with Ronny. A right pair they were. She was a little devil, always in and out of trouble. She came close to knifing one of the lasses in her class for going out with a boyfriend of hers, did Phyllis. All three of them fourteen at the time!”
Grace wasn’t sure why but the image of the temple came into her mind and with it a conjecture. “Suppose she met Ronny somewhere during those missing days, and for some reason they arranged to meet again at night? Too far-fetched?”
“I don’t know, but I’m glad she’s not our problem.”
“Her mother told me Phyllis stole money from her after Nica was born and left the baby behind. She said she doesn’t know where Phyllis went.”
“Went to work as a tart, of course. What else would a girl like her do?”
Grace thought about her visit to the Gibsons and how delighted Nica had been with her presents. What a shame it was for a girl to have such wretched excuses for parents. “Does Phyllis come back to visit her daughter? Nica asked her grandmother whether her auntie was going to bring presents. Do you think…?”
“That auntie might really be mam? Happens all the time. Could be worth looking into.”
“What about that misguided child who’s trying to pass herself off as a prostitute? She told me an old neighbor put the idea into her head.”
“It would be the sort of thing Phyllis would do.” He called over a constable who was filling out reports at a table by the shelves. “Briggs, you’ve dealt with Lulu.”
The young man smiled in amusement. “Yes, sir, I have at that.”
“Any idea who convinced her to try to get herself arrested?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you seen her with any tarts?”
Briggs shook his head.
“Do you know Phyllis Gibson, Constable Briggs?” Grace asked.
Briggs looked from Grace to Wallace.
“Answer the lady,” Wallace said. “She won’t bite. Furthermore, she’s here to stay, whatever Sergeant Baines might have told you.”
“Yes, sir. Um, no, miss. Never heard of this Phyllis.” He looked nervously back at Wallace. “Should I know her?”
“You haven’t been with us long enough, Briggs. If you were here when Phyllis lived in the street you wouldn’t forget her. Any unfamiliar ladies of our fair pavements been around in the past week or so? You check on the ruins regularly.”
“The tarts—excuse me, miss—have abandoned that as a meeting spot. I wonder why?”
“Aye. Well, the locals were always complaining we couldn’t keep the ladies away. I hope they’re happy now!”
The doorbell announced a new arrival.
Wallace stood up. “Constable Robinson. Just the man I want to see.” He slapped the carriage return lever hard. “I’ve been helping you out with these forms, but now you can take over yourself. Tapping them keys will warm you up!”