Next day Grace and Wallace caught a Scotswood Road tram to the Central Station, the city’s great railway hub. They intended to question Phyllis Gibson, the mother of Ronny’s daughter, at the address Grace had obtained from the Gibsons.
They then boarded a Gateshead tram at the monument to George Stephenson, not far from the Central Station’s portico.
“Local lad, Stephenson was,” Wallace had remarked as they waited, sheltering from a light rain under Grace’s umbrella. “Me favourite’s always been that one.” He had pointed to a larger-than-life statue of a miner lounging at one corner of the steps at the foot of the monument. “Me grandad was a pitman and used to crack on he was the model for it. Grandma would say she could well believe it, given how much time he spent lying on our front room sofa.”
The tram crossed the Tyne to the Gateshead side on a bridge Wallace called the High Level, which struck Grace as odd because it consisted of two levels. A train emerged from the upper part as their tram approached the lower. Running trains on what was essentially the ceiling of a pedestrian and traffic bridge struck Grace as a precarious arrangement.
Glimpsed through the tram’s rain-pocked windows, the city and the river presented the appearance of an impressionistic painting, albeit a monochromatic one.
Wallace tapped on the glass. “That baby bridge between us and next one is the Swing Bridge, where Tommy stood outside the long arms of the law.”
Grace recalled Charlie Gibson’s complaint that he didn’t want his injured arm to turn him into another “Tommy on the bridge.” She said, “I heard about that. And the bridge beyond it is the Tyne Bridge. When I was coming up to the city on the train a whole crowd of servicemen rushed to the corridor windows on that side as we approached the river. The man standing next to me told me that was the name of the big green bridge and he was always glad to see it.”
“Aye, Geordies love it. Symbol of home, you see. If we’d walked over this bridge we’d get a good view of the quay and all. Some afternoon when you’re off work, you should go down there and explore the alleys running off it. What we call chares. Steep, narrow, lots of stairs, the kind of place visitors think must be full of Victorian romance but all they find is bad smells and worse language, and lucky to get away without a knock on the head if they’re stupid enough to go into them at night. But there’s a canny little museum in one you should see. Devoted to the Great War. The lass that runs it, her man was killed in the war, and she never married. Keeps it up as a tribute to him and all the dead.”
He settled back in his seat and continued. “Speaking of the dead, now and then some poor soul bent on doing himself in jumps off one of the bridges. Favourite one’s the Tyne Bridge. Sometimes they miss the river and hit the quay. On the other hand, if they fall into the river and are still alive when the River Police fish ’em out, they’re rushed to hospital and introduced to a stomach pump. Not pleasant, to say the least.”
“Do the authorities ever have cases where they accidentally fell or were pushed?”
“It would be hard in either case, since they’d have to climb over the railings.”
Grace craned her head around for a last view of the river as the tram left the bridge behind. “I’ll have to come back some day and take it all in.” She changed the subject back to the business at hand. “I expect you’ll be doing the talking when we get to Phyllis’ flat?”
“No, that’ll be your job. The woman’s touch and all that.” Wallace lapsed into silence for the rest of the journey.
***
Phyllis Gibson may have served as a role model to Lily but she didn’t resemble one to Grace. Slight and nondescript, she wore a short-sleeved dress patterned with splotchy red flowers. Her dull brown hair was in curlers and there was a scrubbing brush in her hand. She didn’t appear to be surprised by their visit.
“Well, well, well, it’s Constable Wallace and his girlfriend,” she observed. “Can’t arrest me, got no authority in Gateshead, do you? How’s the street doing? Come in out the wet and give me a hand scrubbing me scanties. And wipe yer boots!”
The nails on the fingers grasping the brush were long, their polish chipped. Makeup carelessly applied to the tired face only partially hid the bruise around one eye.
“I suppose you got the address off me parents.”
“We’re not here to discuss your parents,” Wallace said.
“So what is you want, seeing as you can’t arrest me for anything? Pardon me if I don’t ask you to sit down. I have to get ready to go out soon. The woman I share the place with scarpered, and to pay the rent on me own means longer working hours.”
“We’ve come for a friendly chat, Phyllis,” Wallace told her. “I’m only here to escort my colleague safely through the wilds of Coatsworth Road.”
“And have an easy afternoon off work while you’re at it,” Phyllis riposted. “Well, start chatting.”
“Go ahead, Grace.”
Grace hesitated, then squared her shoulders and began. “About the recent deaths in Benwell. No doubt you’ve read about them. I’m sorry to have to ask about the latest incident, but we understand—”
“You mean that swine Ronny? I don’t call that an incident. I call it good riddance. I don’t have much to say about him and none of it is good. He got what he deserved. You’ll hear the same story from anyone what knew him. That fond fool Mavis needed her head examined, marrying him.”
It was sad, Grace thought, that Phyllis would speak of the father of her child in such words. But in certain circumstances love could turn bitter, as it manifestly had in Mavis’ marriage. No wonder Mavis had expressed relief she had had no children.
“We’ll take Ronny’s swinishness for granted,” Wallace intervened. “What we want to know is when did you last see him?”
Phyllis glared at him. “Not for years. Never gave a penny to help raise the bairn.”
“You haven’t seen him recently?”
“Of course not. Why do you think I moved to Gateshead without leaving me address? To make sure he could never find me. Told me parents not to give it out. You want me opinion? I think it was Ronny did in that woman nobody knows. Maybe she refused him. He was that kind of man. Thwart him, give him lip, he’d bash your face in as soon as look at you.”
“Your black eye…that’s not Ronny’s doing?” Grace asked.
Phyllis’ laugh was sharp, short, and bitter. “You think Ronny would’ve stopped at one eye, miss? I’m in a dangerous line of work, you know.” She glanced at Wallace. “More dangerous than police work.”
Grace wasn’t sure why Wallace imagined she should be successful talking to Phyllis simply because she was the same sex. What did she know about how city people lived? In Noddweir women didn’t resort to prostitution. If they were desperate and unscrupulous they got pregnant and earned wedding rings. “When did you find out Ronny was back?” Grace asked.
“When I read in the paper that he was dead. If you find who did it give him a medal.”
***
After her visitors left Phyllis sat in an armchair and stared out the front window. She could feel her face hot with anger. She lit a cigarette, stubbed it out violently, jumped up, threw on an overcoat, and went out into the cold.
There was a phone in the back of the pub at the end of the street. The barman gave her an inquiring look, seeing her in the place at this time in the afternoon. She ignored him and made her call. The phone rang only once before it was picked up.
“They’ve been,” she said. There were only a few patrons, talking quietly, so she had to keep her voice down. “No, I didn’t tell them anything they didn’t already know, I don’t think. That Wallace’s a sly one. Why did you let them talk to me in the first place?”
The voice on the other end of the line made excuses. Regular police procedure had to be followed. It would seem suspicious, otherwise.
“Why? Who are they to question your orders?”
Her face felt hotter than ever. She was going to need a drink when she got off the phone. “Look, Joe. With Mona gone, I need a few quid to make next week’s rent. Of course you could always make an honest woman out of me.”
She closed her eyes and let the tinny voice drone in her ear, the monotonous buzz of a fly. A buzz she’d heard before.
“I know you don’t have a permanent place to stay right now. But why haven’t you found anything yet? Don’t you want to, Joe?”
Things were better when his wife was alive. He’d arrive at Phyllis’ door crushed by his job and a wife who never stopped criticizing. The wife—her name was forbidden between them—considered him a bumbler. She told him he could never do anything right. Phyllis had sympathized and taken him to bed.
Now she was beginning to wonder if the wife had been right.
“How long have we been together? I’ve done everything you’ve asked. I stopped seeing clients in Benwell. I let Mona take over for me on your side of the river. And did I ever ask you to leave your wife, Joe? You know I never did. But now she’s gone….”
Then someone was coming into the office and Sergeant Baines had to go, or so he said. The phone clicked down.