Wallace had donned a well-worn three-piece suit of a vintage indicated by the generous turn-ups on the trousers, a sartorial touch that rumour had it would soon be banned under regulations intended to conserve material and labour for the war effort. He might be dressed too formally for a visit to the Duke’s Arms, but wearing his uniform would guarantee tight lips all around.
The pair he wanted to talk to, the Anderson brothers, occupied their usual corner, backs to the wall, keeping an eye on the door and sipping drinks, silent and watchful, looking like elderly rats.
Which is exactly what they were, Wallace thought. Hitler might replace the king as the country’s new landlord, but the rats in the cellar would continue with their thieving and fighting as if nothing had changed.
He bought a pint and sat down beside them, amending his previous thought. They were large, brawny rats despite being on the wrong side of seventy. They both looked as if they’d spent their lives at hard physical labor. In reality the only labor they’d done was beating people up.
“Going to get us bad reputations if our marrers come in and see us boozing with a copper,” Matthew complained. “People’ll think you was treating us in return for information, Wallace.”
“Information is always gratefully received by poor coppers on the beat,” Wallace returned.
“Poor, he says,” sneered Mike. “Nobody greasing your palm to turn a blind eye to little indiscretions like in the old days?”
Wallace leveled a cold stare at him. “Little indiscretions like blackmail or bashing defenceless lasses on the head?”
For a few moments the trio drank in what might have passed for companionable silence. Finally Wallace put down his glass and wiped his mouth. “Charlie Gibson been in here tonight?”
The brothers exchanged glances. “Not while we’ve been here.”
“Surprised, since it’s his favourite pub.”
“Good God!” Matthew gasped in mock horror. “The copper on the beat really does know all about them living on the streets they patrol. But you won’t see him here at night. He’s an air raid warden, you know. He’ll be on duty as soon as it’s dark.”
“Aye, maybe so. But an air raid warden is entitled to pop in for a quick drink when it’s quiet.”
Mike looked surprised, pushed back his cap, and scratched his head. “Is this man joking or not?” he asked his younger sibling.
Wallace persisted. “Ronny went on a pub crawl the night he was killed. Did he come in here that night?”
“How do you know we were here that night?” Matthew asked. “Are we supposed to keep a record of every bugger’s comings and goings and send it to the station weekly?”
“You’re here every night, regular as clockwork.” Wallace swallowed the last of his pint. “I’m surprised the landlord serves you, the number of times you’ve been arrested for fighting here. You think I don’t remember?”
“That was in the old days, before you was retired,” Mike said. “Since then me brother and me, we’ve reformed.”
Matthew made a fist. “And lucky for you we don’t think with these anymore.”
“Heard you haven’t changed,” Wallace said.
Matthew put a big hand on Wallace’s shoulder in what an observer might have mistaken for a friendly gesture. “If we ain’t changed our ways, why are you still sitting up instead of lying on the floor bleeding?”
Mike gave his brother a warning look and the big hand left Wallace’s shoulder.
“Have you two talked to Sefton lately?”
Mike frowned. “We don’t work with Sefton no more.”
“Sounds like you boys do nothing anymore but sit in the corner here and drink.”
“That’s right,” Matthew growled. “We ain’t causing no one no trouble. We both got one foot in the grave.”
“So an old git like me could put you straight in the hole with a good hard kick in the arse.”
“I don’t go in for rough stuff these days but that don’t mean I forgot how, Wallace.”
“You know better than to get my brother het up,” Mike warned. “And can you blame him? Here we are, minding our own business, trying to enjoy our retirement. We don’t need coppers breathing down our necks.”
“So you understand the point I’m making, Mike. If you don’t want the police trailing your coffin around right to the cemetery gates—”
“All right, Wallace. We got nothing to hide no more, my brother and me. Not talking to coppers gets to be a habit. When you asked us about Ronny at the cemetery we said we didn’t know nothing. But being as you’re going to buy the next round we’ll tell you what you want to save you the trouble of having to ask somebody else.”
Wallace obliged. Mike took a few gulps, gathering his thoughts. Matthew glared threateningly.
“I’m thinking Ronny knew we’d be here,” Mike began, “just like you did. He come in with a pair of blokes from the old days, treated us all to a drink. We was catching up on the news when in comes Charlie Gibson, mad with power, shouting light was getting out into the street. You’d have thought the war was going to be lost then and there if somebody didn’t straighten out the blackout curtains.
“Then he spies Ronny and forgets all about winning the war. He got after Ronny about the kid. Things got a bit heated before Charlie shoved off, and then after a bit Ronny left.”
“What do you mean by heated?” Wallace asked. “Did they fight?”
“Only yelling and cursing. Ronny can out-curse Charlie in his sleep. They couldn’t very well fight. A man with only one good arm could hardly take on Ronny, and it wouldn’t look good for Ronny to beat up a cripple.”
“And to think someone said there was no honour among thieves. Did Ronny’s friends go with him?”
“Don’t remember.”
“Do you think Ronny went out after Charlie?”
“Nay. It was a few minutes after Charlie left before Ronny went out.”
Wallace finished his drink and stood up. “Thanks, boys. If you think of owt else, any information will be appreciated. Now you’re retired an extra quid here and there might help you make ends meet.”