'Had them laid out in the aisles, throttled by their own corsets, I bet.'
'Mr Smeeton,' put in the landlady stonily, 'does wonderful work for charity.'
'Hmmm,' said Mod. 'The Euthanasia Society.'
'Really!' exclaimed Doris. 'It's a pity some others don't get off their backsides and do some good.' She glared at Mod. Miss Banks said: 'Back to school next week. Another term.'
Nobody had anything to add to that. An armed silence dropped over the table. Doris, like someone who had been lying undecidedly in ambush, broke it. 'You've been seen,' she said up the table towards her husband.
His eyebrows went up over the custard. 'I wouldn't argue with that,' he said. 'I'm not The Invisible Man.'
'Let me finish,' she said tartly. 'You've been seen -with a dark woman.'
Davies looked askance around the table. 'What other revelations are we going to have tonight?' he inquired. He leaned again across the cloth. 'Women, Mrs Davies,' he said heavily, 'come either dark or fair, with a few ginger ones thrown in.' He concentrated his gaze on his wife's starved hair.
'Mine is Titian,' she replied haughtily. 'And the dark woman was dark all over - a darkie in other words.'
Davies thought he heard the eyelids of Mrs Full-james click up once more. He continued to look in the direction of his wife. 'That,' he said, 'is enough to have you nicked under the Race Relations Act.'
'She's a darkie,' said Doris defiantly. 'No Race Relations Act is going to alter that. It won't whiten her.'
'I don't know why I should bother to reply to this slander,' Davies said. 'Let's say she's a friend.'
He left the table. Mod rose and went with him from the room.
'Going to The Babe?' he asked casually.
'Inquiries,' said Davies, 'of a certain nature.'
'Oh, I see. Well, give her my regards. I'm busy tonight anyway. Radio Four. Ibsen.
Peer Gynt.'
'Oh good,' said Davies. He went out of the front door and walked along the echoing street. Christmas and the New Year had emptied them. When he reached Jemma's door he rang; she called through and released the safety lock. The deep aroma of cooking filled the passageway. Jemma came to the inner door and kissed him.
'Where's Mod?' she asked. 'Gone to the pub?' Sizzling came from the kitchen.
'Not Wednesday,' he said, his nose wrinkling. 'There's something on the radio he wants to hear.'
'Peer Gynt,'
she nodded. 'I was going to listen but somebody turned up. A fugitive. Mrs Wan from the Chinese take-away. Her husband's threatened to chop her head off.'
'So she's staying here.'
'Just for tonight. Tomorrow, she says, her brother will come and he'll chop her husband's head off.'
'Better examine your next take-away,' said Davies. He took off his overcoat and kissed her properly. 'You're lovely,' she said. 'Lovely.'
'You're not so bad yourself,' said Davies. He sniffed. 'She's certainly doing something miraculous.'
'Have you eaten?'
'Well, eating at "Bali Hi", Furtman Gardens, doesn't count. We had rhubarb. Like eating firewood.'
'There'll be plenty,' said Jemma.
He looked at her. 'I came to have another peep at Lofty's things,' he said, almost shamefaced.
'Now?' she asked.
'I'd like to.'
'Right. I don't think she's ready yet.'
'Not ready yet,' Mrs Wan called from the kitchen.
Jemma fetched Lofty's belongings. From the biscuit tin Davies took the wooden box. 'This,' he said. 'This is what I was thinking about. After seeing Sergeant Emmanuel's box. Remember?'
'Not while
...
you know
...
we were
...
?'
'No. God no. Afterwards. Post-coital.'
She smiled. 'We should do it more often. If it helps you think.'
'Depends how full the cells are
’
said Davies. He held the box, turning it lightly in his hands. 'All that work in Emmanuel's box made me think of it. The brass and everything. Have you got a screwdriver? These screws are buried right down.'
'Several,' she said. 'When you live alone you find you need screwdrivers.' She went into the kitchen and returned with a plastic cutlery tray from which she took three screwdrivers. Davies selected one. His eyes tightened as he pushed it into the rounded recess. 'It's a lovely bit of work, this box,' he said. 'Made by a craftsman.'
As he eased the screw away from its burrow the Chinese woman came from the kitchen and watched him. 'Good box,' she said.
The screw gradually came free. 'Look at that
’
said Davies. 'Just look at that - it's made of wood.'
* * *
Walter Pitt, the undertaker, was busy, as he often carefully phrased it, with a customer. As Davies came through the street door and the bell jangled, Walter called out: 'With you in a minute.' His small businesslike face quickly fulfilled the promise.
'Ah, it's you, Dangerous,' he said. 'Come on through.'
Davies did not enjoy going into the back of the premises, but Walter solicitously closed a coffin lid as he did so. Then he opened it again to retrieve his glasses. There was the overwhelming sweetness of French polish and flowers.
Walter had a long reputation for decency and fair prices. He was absently polishing the casket to which he had been attending and now, disconcertingly, he half-lifted the lid as if to be assured that the occupant was still there. To Davies's relief he closed it again. 'Lost my pen now,' he explained. 'I'm always doing it. Between you and me, Dangerous, there's quite a few of my ball-points gone where I'll never be able to get them back. And three pairs of glasses.'
There was a small green-clothed table in the room, at the side, upon which was a tray set with cups, a teapot, sugar and milk. The undertaker poured two cups. 'We're pretty busy,' he said. 'You'd be surprised how many people hang on for a few more days over Christmas and the New Year. First and second week of January, it's quite lively.'
'Bit like the sales,' suggested Davies.
'In a way,' said Walter. 'People sometimes struggle into another year, anyway.' He looked up. 'Is there anything I can do for you, Dangerous, or did you just drop in?'
'There is, actually, Walter,' said Davies. He rummaged in his overcoat pocket and brought out an envelope from which he took the screw from Lofty
Brock's box. 'Ever seen one of these?' He handed it to the undertaker.
A small light came into Walter's face. 'Now just look at that
’
he said, turning the screw in his fingers. 'Wood, and beautifully made.' He turned it happily just below his nose, emitting little hums of approval. He looked up. 'Lovely job,' he said.
'Ever seen one before?' asked Davies. 'I thought if anyone would know it would be you.'
'Thank you, Dangerous,' said Walter graciously. 'But I can't say I have. He held out his palm and rolled the screw to and fro. 'It must be for a very special purpose
’
he said. 'Or it
was,
because it seems to be some years old.'
'Not just to use in keeping a box together?'
'Well, if it were a very special box, I suppose so. But it's finely made, turned, and it's good as new. You could use it now.' His fingers tested the screw. 'It's very hard,' he said. 'Well turned.' He looked up at Davies. 'Is finding out a matter of urgency?' he inquired.
'The sooner the better,' said Davies. 'It came from a small cabinet. A box. There were twelve used altogether.'
'Well, if you don't mind me keeping it for a short while, I could make some inquiries in the woodworking fraternity. Someone might know.' Once more he rolled the screw on his palm, beginning again his pleased hum. 'They don't make things like this,' he said. 'Not these days.'
Miss Honoria Gladstone, late of HM Prison Service, lived in Bedfordshire, a small castellated building with tight windows and a heavy studded door.
'It was the lodge once
’
she explained. 'The gatehouse to the estate, but it looked so much like a minor prison that I purchased it at once. After a lifetime's work in places of confinement, it's rather appropriate and comforting.'
Davies ducked below the threshold of the front door and followed her, almost at a crouch, along a damp and diminishing corridor to a cell-like room piled and lined with books and papers. A desk towards the lancet window was contained in a crater between the overwhelming paraphernalia.
'The work continues
’
enthused the old lady.
'Girls Behind Bars
is my current labour.' She put her surprisingly gentle hand on his sleeve and her powerful eyes gleamed through her dense spectacles. 'There are not many people doing this work today, you know,' she said with a fierceness that made him blink. 'Fortunately,' she added.
She pushed her way towards the desk, advancing through the alleys of literature like someone in a maze. A tower of periodicals slithered to the ground and Davies bent ineffectually, first to stop the avalanche and then to pick it up.
'Don't bother, don't bother!' exclaimed Miss Gladstone. 'Next year's work, that is -
Paying the Price: The Crimes and Punishments of Women.'
She pointed vaguely: 'There's a chair somewhere under that lot.'
Davies went to the area she had indicated and burrowed below books until he unearthed an upright wooden chair. On the chair was a flat tabby cat.
'Ah
’
said Miss Gladstone. 'That's where you got to.' She waved a satin hand at the tabby. 'Come on, Holloway
’
she urged. 'Move your rump.'
The cat yawned and slithered away. 'Sometimes
’
mentioned the old lady, 'even food won't bring her out of hiding. She's a born fugitive.' The remark provoked her to jot a note on a pad. Davies, pushing aside further books, eventually sat on the chair.
'I cannot think what further use I may be to you,' said Miss Gladstone, looking like an eagle over the desk. 'I kept your photograph, of course, and I've given it thought, but although I am an authority,
the
authority, on British Women's Prisons, that does not mean to indicate an ability to recognize individual denizens.'
'As you know I had some copies of the photograph made,' he said, 'before I gave you the original picture at the Christmas party. I've had one copy blown up.' He took it out from an envelope. 'There's one thing that has come to light with the enlargement, although it's not very much.'
He produced the picture, now eight inches by twelve, and passed it across to the elderly lady. 'Hmm, she's no beauty, is she,' commented Miss Gladstone. 'She would never have been a member of the sewing circle.' She glanced up. 'A special clique of prisoners,' she explained.
Davies leaned forward. 'The thing that has come out by enlarging the photograph,' he said, his finger pointed to the top right-hand corner, 'is this bit here. If you look carefully, there is faint sunlight coming through some sort of leaded window, in the shape of a curve. You can just make it out.'
'Chelmsford,' said Miss Gladstone firmly. 'Circa 1935-37. They took the prisoner pictures in the chapel.'
He pushed the door of the CID Room open with such bad-tempered force that he knocked Detective Constable Sanderson off a chair he was using to reach his tennis racquet, which he kept hidden on top of a cupboard.
'Oh God, sorry, Sandy
’
said Davies, righting the chair and then the policeman. 'I'm bloody livid, that's all
’
'Your two villains,' guessed Sanderson, examining a broken string in the racquet. 'They got off.'
'They might as well have done,' growled Davies. He picked up three darts and hurled them violently at the dartboard. 'Mag
...
i
..
. bloody . . . strates!' he said, flinging each one with emphasis. All three missed the board. He sat down bulkily. 'Six months - suspended,' he said. 'Six months is bad enough. When the silly old sod said "suspended", I nearly ran over and throttled him.'
'You'd have got fifteen years for that,' forecast Sanderson. 'They conjured up a defence, did they?'
Davies's eyes bulged. 'A defence? Jesus Christ, listen to this. They said the old lady attacked
them first’
That smote even Sanderson. 'Attacked
them’
he said unbelievingly. 'How old is she? Seventy-five?'
'Seventy-eight,' said Davies, grinding his teeth. 'Two bleeding eighteen-year-olds, and they say that she attacked them first.'
He put his head in his hands and, looking down, saw for the first time the note on his desk. 'Oh, I took that,' remembered Sanderson. 'Hampstead nick. They've got Shiny Bright. He wants to speak to you. Says he has information, whatever that may mean.'
'Hampstead? Shiny?' wondered Davies. 'Bit rarified for him.' He looked up the number and dialled it.
'Bright,' said the sergeant at the other end. 'Know him?'