The tinkle of breaking glass in the front shop wakened Nora instantly. She dug Matt in the ribs and, reaching for her dressing gown, had just put one foot on the floor when the door of the bedroom burst open and a uniformed constable switched on the ceiling light.
Matt sat up, blinking. ‘What the …’
‘Mrs Leo Romano?’ the copper growled.
Nora, mouth hanging open, nodded.
‘Got her, sir. In here,’ said the copper and a man in a double-breasted lounge suit and snap-brim hat stepped past the constable into the room.
Matt reached for the alarm clock on the bedside table and squinted at the dial. Twenty minutes past five. For a moment he was convinced that the alarm would go off, his dream would end and he’d get up and make ready to go to work.
‘Put that down, please,’ the lounge suit said.
‘It’s just a clock,’ said Matt.
‘It’s a weapon,’ said the lounge suit and directed the constable to remove the object from Matt’s hand which, swiftly, the constable proceeded to do.
Matt knew then that it was no dream and, with a roar, pitched himself out of bed. One copper, then two, threw themselves upon him, locked his arms behind his back and jammed his face into the wallpaper.
‘This ’im, sir?’
‘No, it’s the woman we’re after, just the woman.’
Clad only in her nightdress and dressing gown, Nora was taken by the arm and hustled towards the door. Past the peeler’s broad shoulder Matt caught a glimpse of her terrified face and, enraged, kicked at the constable’s shins.
‘Now, now, you dirty old sod, you’ve ’ad your fun for one night,’ one said and, jerking Matt by the arm, forced him down into a praying position by the bed. ‘Stay there like a good lad, an’ be thankful your name ain’t Romano.’
‘Bastards,’ Matt shouted. ‘Nazi bastards.’
A gloved hand shoved his face into the mattress and a gloved hand whacked his ear.
And then they left.
Matt clambered to his feet, crept on to the landing and looked down the stairs into the corridor that led into the kitchen.
He crouched at the top of the stairs until the shop door slammed, then, clutching his pyjamas to his belly, leaped down into the corridor, ran through the kitchen into the shop and out through the open door into the street.
The motorcar was already halfway to the corner, a van with blacked-out windows hard on its tail. Matt pursued the van for a hundred yards, cursing at the top of his voice, then, badly winded, gave up the hopeless chase and limped back to Stratton’s to find help.
‘How the hell do I know where they’ve taken ’er, Dad?’ Ronnie said. ‘I’m a fireman, not a bloody copper.’
‘You want some more of this?’ Breda shook the bottle of brandy that she kept for emergencies.
‘Yer.’ Matt held up his tea mug. ‘I mean, what they want with Nora? She’s Irish, for God’s sake. She never done no ’arm to no one.’
‘Didn’t they tell you anythin’?’ said Ron.
‘Not a bleedin’ thing,’ Matt said. ‘Near tore me arm off, they did, when I tried to stop them.’ He raised his left arm to shoulder height and winced. ‘Lucky it ain’t broke. Didn’t even let ’er dress. I mean, nightie an’ dressing gown; what sort of a way’s that for a woman to go out in public? Where’s Billy?’
‘Still asleep,’ said Breda.
‘Not even a warnin’,’ Matt went on. ‘They broke the front door an’ just barged in. Can they do that, Ron?’
‘They can now,’ Ronnie said. ‘Musso declared war yesterday so it’s woe betide anyone Italian.’
‘Nora ain’t an Eye-tie,’ Matt said
‘No, but she’s married to one,’ Breda reminded him.
‘If she’d only married me, she’d be safe as ’ouses.’ Matt ran a gnarled hand over his face and scrubbed at his thick grey hair. ‘What they gonna do to ’er, Ron?’
‘First we got to find out where they’ve taken her, an’ that might not be so easy.’
‘It’s the law,’ said Matt. ‘Ain’t it? Habus Corpsus; they can’t keep ’er without a charge. We need a lawyer. You know any good lawyers, son?’
‘Not me,’ Ronnie said.
‘Susan might,’ Matt said. ‘Susan would.’
‘Forget about Susan,’ Breda said. ‘I can ’andle it.’
‘You?’ Matt Hooper said.
‘Yeah, me,’ said Breda.
She unfolded the scrap of paper that she’d kept hidden in the drawer with her rosary beads, the lace handkerchief that had once belonged to her Irish grandmother and the bone and silver teething-ring, a christening gift from Danny, that Billy had chewed through before he was a year old.
She dialled the number carefully, pressed pennies into the slot, pressed the button and in a clear, calm voice asked to be put through to Mr Jessop’s office.
‘Tell him,’ she said. ‘It’s Leo Romano’s daughter.’
The box was on the corner by the Co-op bank at the head of Docklands Road. The road was already bustling with drays, motor vans and the big tarpaulin-covered flat-bed lorries that always looked as if they were just about to shed their tottering loads. Even with the door of the box closed Breda could hear the traffic sounds vibrating in the summer morning air.
She was nervous, too nervous even to smoke. She didn’t really expect Jessop to be there so early. She was already planning what she might do next when a soft, soothing voice spoke into her ear.
‘Mrs Hooper, what a pleasant surprise.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet it is,’ said Breda.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Where is she? What’ve you done with my ma?’
‘Your ma?’
‘Come off it, Mr Jessop. I know you got her.’
‘I don’t have her here, lass. In fact, I’m not entirely sure who has her. I know my friends in the CID are interested but …’
‘It’s my dad you’re after, ain’t it?’
‘Of course, it is,’ Jessop admitted.
‘How much tug you got, Mr Jessop?’
‘Beg pardon?’
‘I mean,’ Breda said, ‘are you in a position to get my mother released?’
‘I am.’
‘Can I count on you to deal fair?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Okay, tell me where an’ when we can meet.’
‘I take it you know where your father is?’
‘Yeah,’ Breda said. ‘I do.’
‘He’s not with you right now, by any chance?’
‘He’s not that stupid.’
‘Tell me where he is and—’
‘You think I’m fallin’ for that one, think again, Mr Jessop,’ Breda said. ‘I’ll tell you what you wanna know when I see my mother face to face.’
He uttered a strange little sound, like a cat purring, as if her caution pleased him.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Holloway prison at ten o’clock.’
‘Inside or out?’
‘I’ll be at the gates at ten.’
‘See you there then,’ said Breda and hung up.
It took her all her time to persuade her father-in-law that he would be better off at work. Ronnie took no persuading; only serious illness or injury were accepted as excuses for ducking a watch.
‘Holloway?’ he said. ‘Nora’s no crook. What’s she doin’ in prison?’
‘She won’t be there long. I’ve been in touch with the Irish embassy,’ Breda said in a moment of inspiration and, rather to her surprise, saw her father-in-law nod as he swallowed the lie.
‘The Irish embassy?’ said Ronnie. ‘Really?’
‘Ma’s a – what-they-call-em?’
‘Alien national,’ Ronnie suggested, giving her a long look. ‘I suppose you’re gonna tell us the Irish ambassador’s taking up the case personally?’
‘That’s it,’ said Breda. ‘The Irish ambassador.’
‘He’ll do ’is stuff, won’t ’e, Ron? They’ll listen to the Irish ambassador, won’t they?’ Matt said.
‘You bet they will,’ Ron said, then, drawing Breda to one side, whispered, ‘What the hell’re you up to?’
‘Got a copper on our side.’
‘Copper? What copper?’
‘Used to be a friend of mine long time ago.’
Ronnie grunted. ‘Like that?’
‘Yeah, like that,’ Breda said. ‘Gone up in the world, he ’as since them days. He remembers me, though, remembers me fondly enough to say he’ll ’elp.’
‘What’s he gonna get in return?’
‘Not what you think, darlin’,’ Breda assured him. ‘Not what you think at all. How long you got?’
‘Short of an hour.’
‘Make sure the old man eats somethin’ then pack ’im off to work. Get Billy up an’ dressed an’ give ’im ’is breakfast. I’ll be back in time to take ’im to school.’
‘Now where you goin’?’ said Matt anxiously.
‘Up to Stratton’s to collect Ma’s clothes. Don’t want ’er paradin’ through the streets like Lady Godiva, do yah? Did you patch up the front door?’
‘Best I could, state I was in,’ said Matt.
‘I’ll stick up the “Closed” sign. That’ll ’ave to do for now.’ Breda planted her hands on her hips, thrust out her chest and, like the harridan she yearned to be, said, ‘You got that, both of you? You know what you gotta do?’ and, without waiting for an answer, rushed upstairs to dress.
Many of the trees that had screened the towers and turrets of the old Holloway Castle had been removed but those that remained were in full, dusty leaf and the arched doorway still had the menacing appearance of a keep.
Breda experienced a flutter of panic when the door opened and a warder, sweating in his serge uniform, sourly inspected Mr Jessop’s pass.
‘We’re expected,’ Mr Jessop said.
Brooking no argument, he stepped over the threshold and led his little party of three men and Breda into a communal hallway and, obviously familiar with the building, swung left into a vaulted corridor floored with worn brown linoleum.
Sunlight stole through high unbarred windows that reminded Breda of churches she’d visited with her mother, churches with histories as long as your arm. At the first corner, she caught a glimpse of a vast tunnel-like room with tiers of cells rising up to a glass roof and a spider’s web of iron bars and railings. She had no opportunity to gawp. Mr Jessop cracked on at a fair pace and it was all she, in the middle of the group, could do to keep up.
She had no idea who the other men were but one very tall man with a neat moustache seemed too well dressed to be a copper. Even Mr Jessop called him ‘sir’.
Ronnie had unearthed an old rucksack brought home from Spain that, stuffed with Nora’s clothes, Breda carried in her arms. Mr Jessop wheeled round another corner and there, at the corridor’s end, was a varnished wooden door guarded by a male warder who snapped to attention as soon as Mr Jessop’s party appeared.
‘How many?’ the tall man with the moustache asked.
‘Eleven, sir,’ the warder answered.
‘All women, I take it?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘Have they been fed?’
‘Tea, sir, an’ bread.’
‘How long ago?’
‘’Bout an hour, sir.’
‘All right,’ the tall man said. ‘Open up.’
The long room was more like a civic hall than a jail cell. Small square windows admitted scant light. In the centre of the room was a trestle table with two chipped enamel pails upon it, three or four empty milk bottles and an array of tin mugs. There were no chairs, only benches upon which women crouched or lay in uncomfortable positions.
A pair of female warders in black skirts and stiff white shirts stood guard, one on the door, the other by an open recess at the far end of the room within which were two lavatories, side by side. A woman in a velvet ball gown squatted on one of the pedestals, skirts drawn up to her waist.
When the tall man with the moustache appeared in the room, she stretched out her neck and screeched, ‘Richard, you toad. It’s about time you got here,’ then, fairly obviously, sat back and relieved herself.
‘Noblesse oblige?’ Mr Jessop murmured.
‘I’ve seen her piddle in worse places than this,’ the tall man said. ‘Leave her ladyship to me. Do what you have to do with the girl.’
Rising from the benches, all chattering at once, the women converged on the tall man. Unlike her mother, Breda realised, they were toffs. Some were in evening dress – one even had an ermine stole about her shoulders – others wore cashmeres or long elegant summer frocks. Never before, Breda thought, had her ma been in such exalted company.
The women harried the tall gentleman mercilessly. They were furious that they had been swept up like common criminals and insisted on reminding him who they were, what influence their husbands exercised and that if they weren’t released at once they would see to it that his career in government was over and his position in society doomed.
‘Breda,’ Nora said, ‘you come for me?’
‘’Course I did, Ma,’ said Breda.
Barefoot and barelegged, nightdress and dressing gown hanging on her like rags, her mother looked so wretched that Breda’s grit dissolved and, dropping the rucksack and clasping Nora to her breast, she burst into tears.
One of the policemen moved to separate them but Mr Jessop said, ‘Wait.’ He signalled to the wardress by the door and, while Breda and Nora sobbed in each other’s arms, gave the woman instructions. Then he laid a hand on Breda’s shoulder. ‘Time to go now,’ he said.
‘Where you takin’ her?’ Breda spun round. ‘You said – you promised …’
‘Calm yourself, lass,’ Mr Jessop said. ‘She’ll have a wash and a brush up and a place to change into her street clothes. You’ll see her again shortly. Meanwhile, we’ll step outside, away from this bedlam, and have a little chat. All right?’
‘Right,’ Breda sniffed. ‘All right,’ and watched her mother being led away.
The office wasn’t really an office, more of a storeroom. Sewing machines were stacked on a table and an ancient spinning wheel, covered in dust, stood in one corner. There were mops, brushes and pails, two big tubs of wax polish and a huge tin of disinfectant that made the room smell like a public lavatory.
‘Close the door, Syd, please,’ Mr Jessop said.
The plainclothes officer, saying not a word, obliged.
Mr Jessop reached into his coat pocket and brought out a cheap silver-plated cigarette case, opened it and offered it to Breda who, still sniffing, picked a cigarette from under the band and allowed Mr Jessop to light it.
She gulped in smoke and tried to stop trembling.
‘Who’s the bigwig?’ she said at length.
‘Oh, he needn’t concern you,’ Mr Jessop said. ‘We only brought him along to sign a few papers.’ Syd laughed, and Mr Jessop went on, ‘Well, Mrs Hooper, we’ve kept our side of the bargain. Now it’s your turn. Where is he?’
‘I got one question first,’ Breda began.
‘Oh, dear, I hope you’re not going to renege on—’
‘No, just one question: my dad, what’ll you do to ’im?’
‘That’s not up to us,’ Mr Jessop informed her.
‘You won’t top him, will yah?’
‘Of course we won’t top him,’ Mr Jessop said. ‘Your daddy might be a bad lad but he’s no traitor. As it stands, he’s wanted on minor criminal charges. If he gives us certain information, information useful to us, we can have him re-classed as an alien national. Do you know what that means?’
‘He goes into a camp for the duration without a trial,’ Breda said. ‘It’s Harry King you’re really after, ain’t it?’
‘No flies on you, Mrs Hooper,’ Mr Jessop said. ‘What happens to your father now is solely up to him. There’s nothing you can do to help him, one way or t’other. So where is he?’
‘Brighton,’ Breda said. ‘Can’t give you an exact address, ’cause I don’t ’ave it. He’s lodged with a woman called Ada.’
‘Ada!’ Syd slapped his brow. ‘I might have known it. Bloomin’ Ada Levinson!’
‘Do you know her, Sydney?’ Mr Jessop asked.
‘Oh, sure, I know her. Born in the East End but decamped to Brighton about fifteen years ago. Queen of the rackets on the south coast and a slippery piece of work if ever was. We’ve been after her for years.’ He rubbed his hands gleefully. ‘Oh, I like this. I do like this. Hold the girl and her mother for a quarter of an hour to give me time to make a few phone calls, then release them.’ He pulled open the door. ‘Can’t thank you enough for your cooperation, Alf, you and your department.’
‘Only glad we could help, Inspector,’ Mr Jessop said.
‘What about me?’ said Breda. ‘Don’t I get thanked?’
‘You get your mother back,’ said Mr Jessop. ‘Isn’t that enough?’ and ushered her out of the store.