It was mid-morning when Wallace followed Baines into the station kitchen. “Now you’ve here, sir, I’d like to talk to you about the contents of this file.” He slapped a folder on the cluttered table.
Baines sat down without glancing at the folder. “Don’t be insubordinate, Wallace. Got a terrible headache. Keep it short.”
“It won’t take long. I say contents but there isn’t any. Where’s all the paperwork on the case? Have we been robbed by a burglar who only took the records about the girl found dead but didn’t bother with a tea caddy which actually has tea in it?”
Baines leaned back in his chair, rubbed his forehead, and grimaced. “Oh, that. Not a problem, Wallace. I shoved the papers into an envelope and took them home to study. Left them on the tram. Reported the loss to the company and expect them to produce them any minute.”
“You didn’t leave the request for missing persons information you were supposed to send to headquarters on the tram. I found it at the bottom of a pile of paperwork on your desk.”
“Bloody hell, Wallace, you know the force is undermanned and things take time to—”
“That’s as may be. I’ve asked headquarters for copies of anything they have relating to the case, so some of the missing paperwork at least can be replaced quickly. But the big news is we’ve got a real break. Grace was telling me about it. She had reason to search Stu McPherson’s bedroom and found the handbag belonging to our mystery woman. She’s a mystery no longer. There was a photo of her in the handbag, taken at Saltwell Park over in Gateshead. Her identity card shows she was Phyllis Gibson’s housemate Mona Collingwood.”
Baines sat up. “Phyllis Gibson?” There was an edge to his voice that Wallace guessed was more than mere irritation.
“The very same. Yet when Grace and I interviewed Phyllis the other day she only mentioned that her housemate had scarpered. Made it sound as if she’d left to avoid helping with the rent.”
“Probably thought she had. Nothing strange about it, Wallace. These girls are always going missing for a few days. Then they come back with a grin and more pounds than usual in their purses.”
Wallace thought Baines seemed at pains to defend the former Benwell resident.
***
Grace spent the morning and part of the afternoon patrolling the area, hearing complaints about looting—Stu had not been alone in his endeavors—exchanging words with emergency workers placing barricades around the more dangerous points, redirecting an occasional vehicle that wandered into the partly blocked streets, and generally “showing bobbies were on the beat,” as Wallace had put it.
The air, smelling of smoke and ash, seemed corrosive. She exchanged a few words with Mr. Elliott, who was gingerly picking through the remains of his church. His cardboard box so far held only a few severely twisted candlesticks.
All the time Grace couldn’t help worrying over what she’d found in Stu’s bedroom and what Wallace had been told by Sefton. They’d exchanged information before she left the station for her patrol.
Wallace was gratifyingly impressed at everything Grace had discovered, particularly the dead woman’s identity. According to Wallace, Ronny had been planning to set himself up as a black marketeer. What interested Grace more was that it appeared Phyllis had lied about not seeing Ronny, who had mentioned his intention to visit her in Gateshead.
Did all this new information put the solution of the cases nearer or only complicate them further?
Grace was asking herself that question when Wallace, looking agitated, unexpectedly joined her on the street and threw the situation into further chaos.
When he finished telling her about his confrontation with Sergeant Baines she stared at him, almost speechless. “How peculiar!”
“Peculiar? That’s one word for it. The dead woman turns out to be living with a girl from the area. Meantime Baines suddenly starts showing an interest in the case and takes the paperwork home to study after letting work slide so long and expecting us to cover up for him. And this after not bothering to send out a request for missing persons information. Then he loses the paperwork on the tram, or so he says.
“It’s suggestive, don’t you think?” Wallace continued. “If the woman came all the way over here, she must have expected to meet someone. It would have to be a regular and well-paying arrangement, though, given the distance to travel and in the blackout to boot.”
“And here’s another thing,” Grace replied, “why was he attending that séance under a false name to begin with? Could he be trying to find out if Mrs. Llewellyn charges fees? That would leave her open to obtaining money by false pretenses. So he concealed his identity and hoped no one recognised him as a policeman, given the group used to meet around the corner in the church hall.”
“None of those people would recognize him, Grace. Respectable persons never see the inside of a police station, unless they’re burgled and their silver tea service is stolen.”
They went around the barricades where the bombing had exposed a shop cellar to the sky.
“Regular Aladdin’s Cave down there for the criminally minded,” Wallace remarked. “I’ve been thinking, and it looks as if we may have another possible suspect in our first murder. Stu McPherson. You say he denied touching the woman. But can you believe him? He wouldn’t think twice about knocking her down to get her bag.”
“His mother says he’s only been like that since his brother was killed in the war.”
“She would, wouldn’t she? Did you ever wonder about Rob McPherson, Stu’s role model? He was a career criminal in the making. Knew Ronny, which is how Stu knew him. Ran errands for the Andersons. The war started and now he’s a dead hero. Otherwise he’d be alive and serving time.”