Far From Home (37 page)

‘What the hell is going on here?’ blustered Witherspoon, his gaze darting towards the safe. ‘Get out of my office.’

The man in the fedora took his time in getting to his feet. ‘Mr Jack Witherspoon?’

‘Who wants to know?’ he said belligerently.

‘Chief Inspector Craddock.’

‘You can’t break into my office without a warrant,’ Witherspoon snarled, taking a step back and almost crushing Cissy’s toes.

‘I have a warrant.’ Craddock drew a piece of paper from an inside pocket of his overcoat. ‘I also have these.’ He picked up a handful of negatives and black-and-white photographs. ‘Can you explain how they came to be in your safe, Mr Witherspoon?’

Witherspoon went ashen and stumbled back as the two policemen advanced on him. He turned and was about to make a run for it when Cissy stuck out her foot and he went sprawling.

‘Well done, Cissy,’ shouted Amy, who was jumping up and down and clapping her hands.

Chief Inspector Craddock smiled at Cissy as his officers dragged Witherspoon to his feet. ‘That was quick thinking, well done,’ he said.

His smile broadened as he looked round at the delighted faces of the troupe. ‘Do I get the feeling that none of you are too upset about the fate of your Mr Witherspoon?’

A chorus of affirming murmurs greeted this question, and Craddock nodded. ‘I don’t think it has come as much of a surprise either,’ he murmured. Clearing his throat, he continued. ‘I’ll need to take statements from all of you, but that can wait until tomorrow,’ he said, before turning his attention back to Witherspoon.

Cissy heard very little of this, for her gaze was now firmly fixed on the photographs Craddock was still holding. She couldn’t see any of them properly, and was terrified that some of them might be of her and Amy, and Judy and Flo. If so, she would have to prepare herself for one almighty telling-off from her father. The thought of it made her heart thud.

Chief Inspector Craddock waited until his officers had Witherspoon in handcuffs. ‘Jack Arnold Witherspoon,’ he said, his deep, stern voice ringing round the cramped office. ‘I am arresting you for taking, or causing to take indecent photographs of minors, and for the selling of said indecent photographs.’

‘I want my lawyer,’ rasped Witherspoon, who’d gone a most interesting shade of green.

‘You will get the chance once we’ve got you down at the station.’ The Chief Inspector’s smile was almost vulpine. ‘There are a couple of your cronies already down there. You won’t be allowed to speak to them, of course, but you might not feel so lonely knowing they are in the next cells.’

‘What do you mean?’ gasped Witherspoon, whose legs were shaking so badly he had to be held up by the two policemen.

‘I’m talking about that reptile of a photographer you employed, and that nasty little queer who helps you deal in your dirty photographs. Screamed like a girl he did when we arrested him this afternoon but, seeing as how we caught him with his trousers down, so to speak, he was very keen to tell us everything he knew in exchange for leniency over the charge of gross indecency.’

Witherspoon’s colouring went from sickly green to scarlet before it turned ashen as he was hauled away.

Cissy and the other three girls stared in wonder and amazement at each other, the realisation slowly dawning that they were at last free of Witherspoon.

There was movement in the corridor and they made way for the new arrival who strode purposefully towards Craddock.

‘This is WPC Smith,’ said Craddock. ‘Please give her your names and addresses and then you are free to go. I want all of you at the police station by ten tomorrow morning.’

Having done as he asked, Cissy waited for the other girls and they quickly gathered their things and rushed out of the theatre and into the rain. It was not yet dark and the wet streets and pavements looked like glass in the pale light.

‘Don’t say anything until we know we can’t be overheard,’ said Amy, casting a suspicious glance over her shoulder. A police car was parked at the kerb, with a young woman in military uniform sitting behind the wheel. She smiled at them as they hitched up their heavy bags and gas-mask boxes and hurried away.

‘I think it’s best we say absolutely nothing until we know whose pictures were in that safe,’ said Amy some time later. They’d found refuge from the rain in a pub where they knew they wouldn’t be asked their ages, and were sitting in a far corner so their conversation was lost in the babble of noise.

‘I agree,’ said Cissy. ‘We don’t want our parents finding out unless they absolutely have to. And I don’t know about you, but I dread the thought of having to stand up in court to give evidence.’

‘But he has to be punished,’ said Flo. ‘We can’t let him get away with what he’s been doing by keeping silent any more. You heard what that copper said, about photos of minors – and although we’re none of us yet twenty-one, I wouldn’t describe us as minors. Would you?’

There was a thoughtful silence as they digested this.

Cissy shuddered. ‘You mean he was taking pictures of kids?’

‘It certainly sounds like it,’ said Flo grimly. ‘If that’s the case, then I don’t mind telling the police everything – from the spyholes to the photographs and his wandering hands. Men like him need to be strung up.’

Cissy thought about this as the conversation raged back and forth. ‘I wonder how the police found out what he was up to?’ she said finally. ‘Someone must have informed on him.’

‘Well, it wasn’t any of us,’ said Flo. ‘Perhaps it was one of his cronies that he’d cheated.’

‘Or perhaps it was the pianist. He hated Witherspoon enough to do it.’

‘So did Cheeky Charlie the comedian,’ said Flo dryly.

‘It could have been anyone,’ said Judy with a shiver.

Cissy gave a vast yawn and finished her glass of lemonade shandy in the hope it would take the nasty taste from her mouth. ‘I don’t know about you lot, but I’m going home. I’m completely shattered, and I expect Mum will want to hear all about the tour and it’ll be ages before I get to bed.’

She stood up and put on her damp coat. ‘What do you say we meet at Judy’s place at nine-thirty tomorrow and walk to the police station together?’

This was agreed and they left the pub. Within minutes they were hurrying their separate ways, each occupied with the dark, troubling images that Witherspoon’s arrest had brought them.

It had taken all Cissy’s skills as an actress to hide her true feelings before she was able wearily to climb the stairs to her bedroom. Although it had been lovely to make everyone laugh about the adventures on the disastrous tour, and to catch up with all of Anne’s news, she couldn’t quite dismiss her worry over the interview she must do in the morning. Witherspoon’s arrest had opened a can of worms, and Cissy had a nasty feeling that she and the other girls would be tainted by it.

Dragging off her clothes, she wrapped herself warmly in her dressing gown and hunted through her dresser drawer for a clean nightdress. There was a stack of post on top of the dresser and she would have left it there until she’d had her bath if she hadn’t caught sight of the large brown envelope.

The address had been typed, and it felt fairly heavy. Intrigued, she opened it and shook out the contents. A sheaf of photographs and negatives spilled all over her bed.

‘Oh my God,’ she breathed as she stared at them. ‘These must be from Witherspoon’s safe. But how did they get here? Who …?’

She sifted through the photographs quickly. It looked as if all of hers were there from what she could remember of that awful afternoon, and they weren’t terribly shocking considering what else Witherspoon had been up to. But those of Amy and Judy certainly were. It wasn’t the poses they were in – it was the look of whipped resignation and shame in their eyes that made her feel sick.

After a hurried examination of the negatives, Cissy gathered everything up and tried to stuff it all back in the envelope. But there was something else stuck in the bottom and it took a moment to fish it out.

It turned out to be a short typewritten letter that had been folded neatly into two.

‘These photographs and negatives came from Witherspoon’s safe. You must do with them as you see fit. The remaining evidence in the safe does not concern you or your friends, but is enough to put Witherspoon behind bars for a very long time. My advice is to burn the photographs and say nothing to the police, for it would only hurt your loved ones to see you dragged through the courts. Your secret is safe with me, I promise.’

There was no signature, and the postmark was almost indecipherable.

Cissy bundled everything back into the envelope and buried it at the bottom of her underwear drawer. She leant against the dresser and closed her eyes. She’d been saved by an anonymous guardian angel who had somehow – and most mysteriously – known how to get them all out of the mess they’d found themselves in.

‘Whoever you are,’ she breathed, ‘thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, and I promise I’ll never do anything so stupid again.’

IT WAS THE
beginning of November, and Polly had been back at work at the hospital for a week. Although she’d enjoyed her short time helping at the Red Cross centre in the town, and had appreciated the homeliness of Beach View, and the warmth and support of Peggy and her family, she found the familiarity of the routine on the ward strangely soothing.

She still had nightmares and would, at times, be almost overwhelmed by great waves of loss, but she’d learnt to live with them – had used the pain, the guilt and the grief to keep her going. The hardest part was having to face Adam, who was still too ill to be told what had happened to their beloved Alice. She hated lying to him, but feared telling him the truth – and that was her punishment; the burden she’d been forced to shoulder because she’d been the one to send Alice to her death.

She was very aware that the day would soon come when Adam must be told and, although their marriage had been strong, their love for one another indestructible so far, the knowledge of what she’d done would always be between them and she feared it could be the wedge that drove them apart – and then she really would be left with nothing.

Polly still visited Adam at every opportunity, and today had been no different, but she’d warned him that tonight she would not be coming in to visit at six – she had other plans. She collected her things at the end of her shift, determined to banish all the dark thoughts and terrors that besieged her, and to enjoy the evening out with Mary, and her day off tomorrow. They were planning to go to the theatre to watch the local drama company’s production of
Rebecca
, which had had excellent reviews. It had been ages since she’d had a night out, and she was really looking forward to it.

The crisp autumn days at the beginning of the week had turned mild and wet, the wind rising through the nights, and she rather hoped it would stay dry long enough for her to be able to potter around the town while everyone was at the wedding tomorrow, and then tramp along the hills on Sunday with Ron and Harvey.

As she fastened her cloak and unfurled her umbrella, she thought fondly of the old man and his dog. He reminded her of her late father, for he spoke his mind, could be quite sharp at times, and knew the countryside like the back of his hand. But for all his gruffness, Ronan had a good heart and seemed to understand how much she’d needed his solid, unwavering support over the past month.
Their
friendship had been born out of sorrow, but it was one she would always hold dear.

The heavy drone of British aircraft filled the air as several squadrons of bombers and Spitfires headed across the Channel. Polly watched them for a moment and was about to dash down the steps and into the rain when an ambulance came splashing through the puddles and screeched to a halt.

‘Danuta,’ she exclaimed, looking down at the splatters on her black stockings, and the hem of her cloak and uniform. ‘Do look where you’re going, you’ve absolutely soaked me.’

Danuta clambered down from the driver’s cab with a grin. ‘So sorry,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I not see puddle.’

‘You don’t look where you’re going most of the time,’ Polly replied with a weary sigh. ‘Goodness only knows how you’ve managed to avoid a serious accident.’

Danuta pursed her lips, her gaze darting to the sizeable dent in the front wing as she hitched up the strap of her khaki dungarees and fastened her heavy overcoat. ‘I hit wall this morning, but Stan say he can fix, so no matter, I think.’

She grinned as her co-driver, the thickset and much put upon Stanley Gubbins, clambered down, eyed the dent and raised his gaze to the teeming sky. ‘Stan is good man to fix things. I’m very lucky.’

‘She’ll kill the pair of us one day,’ he grumbled. ‘I reckon we’re lucky to have got away with it for so long.’

‘But you can fix, yes?’

He nodded dourly and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll take it round the back and sort it out before anyone notices,’ he muttered through the open window. ‘But this is the last time, Danuta.’

Danuta gave Polly a beaming smile as she took off her tin helmet. Her dark, short crop of hair was plastered to her head, but her face was radiant, her eyes gleaming with happiness. ‘He does not mean it,’ she said. ‘He just likes to be, how you say, “grumpy” all the time.’