The stragglers were coming out of the turning now and the constable decided to give it another few minutes then take a stroll along to Tower Bridge Road and back. Suddenly he spotted Toby Toomey hurrying along, an evening paper tucked under his arm. PC Wilshaw had been wondering what had become of the street totter.
‘’Ello, Toby,’ he called over. ‘Ain’t yer out wiv the pram these days?’
Toby looked up from his thoughts at the towering policeman and grinned. ‘No,’ he said proudly. ‘I got meself a respectable job.’
‘’Ave yer? What d’yer do now, Toby?’
Toby hooked his thumbs through his braces and puffed out his chest. ‘I’m the ’ead barrel-washer at the pickle factory. It’s a pretty important job, mate. Yer gotta be careful when yer dealin’ wiv food. If I don’t clean them barrels prop’ly people could get food poisonin’. Oh yes, it’s a pretty important job.’
‘I’m sure it is, Toby,’ the constable said, hiding a smile. ‘Not everybody could be an ’ead barrel-washer. ’Ow many yer got workin’ under yer, then?’
Toby pursed his lips and drew in his breath sharply. ‘’Bout six or seven.’
The constable rocked back on his heels. ‘I wanna ask yer somefink, Toby. You’re a sharp character who keeps ’is eyes open. ’Ave yer seen any new faces in the area? Yer know what I’m talkin’ about.’
The head barrel-washer stroked his chin. ‘There’s only one new face showed up round ’ere lately, mate.’
‘Oh, an’ what’s this new face look like?’
Toby stroked his chin again. ‘Well ’e’s short an’ stocky, an’ ’e’s got sort o’ broad features. ’Is nose is flattish an’ ’is ears are all screwed up like a boxer’s. Yeah, an’ ’e talks sort o’ funny.’
‘What d’yer mean, Toby?’ the constable asked quickly.
‘Well it’s gibberish.’
‘Gibberish?’
‘Yeah, ’e talks foreign. ’E’s Czechoslo-bleedin’-vakian.’
‘Czecho what?’
‘This fella my Lil’s goin’ wiv. ’E’s a Czech. Sandor ’e calls’imself. Mind you, I don’t know if it’s ’is real name or not, but our Lil . . .’
‘’Old up, ’old up,’ the tall policeman said sternly. ‘I’m not interested in your Lil’s boyfriend. I’m interested in Dennis Foreman. Yer know who I mean, Toby.’
‘Is that the dirty bastard who’s bin exposin’ ’imself in the market?’
PC Wilshaw groaned to himself and wished he had never bothered to start the conversation. Toby was getting worse, what with Czech boyfriends and marketplace perverts. ‘Jus’ keep yer eye open, Toby,’ he growled. ‘If yer see any strange faces who look a bit suspicious, come an’ tell me, okay?’
Toby nodded and started off home. ‘Come an’ see me?’ he repeated aloud. ‘I should fink so. Nosy ole bastard. ’E’s got more chance o’ bein’ struck by lightnin’.’
The weather had turned bitterly cold as Joe Cooper made his way to the Swan public house in Dockhead. Jack Rabin, the landlord, was friendly with many of the local villains. He might know of someone who could safely transport Dennis Foreman out of the area, Joe reasoned. It would have to be done very quickly. The police would be stepping up the search in the locality and they would certainly get around to checking all the public shelters. Joe was looking serious-faced as he pushed open the door of the saloon bar and walked in. The bar was quiet and Jack Rabin spotted him immediately.
‘Well I never! If it ain’t me ole mate Joe. ’Ow the bloody’ell are yer? I ain’t seen yer fer ages,’ Jack said, thumping Joe on the back and holding out his hand.
Joe grinned as he took the landlord’s outstretched hand in his. ‘Nice ter see yer, Jack. I ’eard yer retired down ter Margate.’
‘No such luck, Joe boy. Not wiv my ole dutch. She’s keepin’ me two steps away from the poor’ouse. Anyway, what yer’avin’?’
‘A nice pint o’ bitter’ll go down a treat, Jack.’
When Joe put down the money Jack waved it away. ‘This one’s on the ’ouse. Fer ole time’s sake. Remember those gettergevvers we ’ad wiv ole Solly Jacobs? We planned a few cracked ’eads in this bar, didn’t we?’
Joe sipped his pint. ‘’Ere, Jack. Remember that Blackshirt march down the Ole Kent Road when we tore into ’em wiv those wooden clubs? I won’t ferget it. That was when I got done fer assaultin’ that copper. What a stitch-up job that was.’
‘Yeah, bloody shame, Joe. ’Ere. I was down yer way a few weeks ago on a bit o’ business. I passed yer turnin’. Those buildin’s took a right pastin’.’
Joe nodded his head sadly. ‘The Bartletts and the Rileys went in that. I s’pose it was lucky more didn’t go. Nearly everybody was down in the factory shelter that night.’
Jack leaned forward on the counter. ‘D’yer fink we’ve seen the last of the bastards? It’s bin very quiet lately, ain’t it?’
‘I dunno, Jack. The Midlands ’ave bin gettin’ it by all accounts, an’ Glasgow an’ Liverpool. They’ll be back ter see us before long, yer can bet on it.’
The drinks had been flowing and a few familiar faces had joined the two. Names were being bandied about and various exploits were being recounted.
Joe decided the time was ripe and he beckoned the group together. ‘Look lads, gavver round,’ he said, glancing around the bar quickly. ‘I don’t wanna shout. I got a problem. A good friend o’ mine wants ter get out o’ the area on the quiet. ’E don’t mind travellin’ third class, if yer get me meanin’, but it’s gotta be done smartly. ’E can pay well, but the wages will ’ave ter come later.’
‘What’s ’e done, Joe, upset a few bookies?’ one of the men joked.
Another one glared at him. ‘Yer know better than to ask that,’ he said. ‘It’s none of our business.’
There was now a marked seriousness amongst the group and Joe suspected that they knew who he was talking about.
Jack turned to one of the men. ‘’Ere, Don. What’s the name o’ that geezer what done yer bit o’ business? ’E’s pretty reliable, ain’t ’e?’
Don Samuels nodded. ‘Yeah, that was ole Bert Lucas. You should know ’im, Joe. ’E’s related ter the Toomeys who live in your turnin’.’
‘Christ! Not Toby Toomey?’
‘That’s ’im. I fink Bert’s ’is wife’s uncle. Somefink like that. Anyway, ’e’s reliable, Joe. Why don’t yer ’ave a word in’er ear? She’ll be able ter locate ’im on the quick.’
Joe thought for a while. ‘I’d better pop in ter see ’er right away. I can’t afford ter ’ang about too long. I’ll see you lads later. Keep out o’ trouble.’
Jack leaned forward on the counter. ‘Give yer mate our best regards, Joe, an’ tell ’im ter come round fer a drink when fings quieten down a bit.’
Joe grinned and walked out into the black.
It was turned eleven when Marie Toomey heard the knock on the front door. ‘Well go on then, ain’t yer gonna answer it?’ she shouted at her husband.
Toby was dozing in the armchair and he jerked awake, his eyes opening wide. ‘I wonder who that is, Marie?’
‘What am I s’posed ter be, clair-bloody-voyant? Go an’ find out.’
Toby opened the door a fraction. ‘Who’s there this time o’ night?’
‘Open the door prop’ly, yer silly git,’ Marie screamed out from the end of the passage.
Toby did as she said and he saw Joe Cooper standing on the doorstep.
‘’Ello, Joe. Wassa matter, mate?’
‘I’m sorry ter knock so late, but it’s urgent. I wanna ’ave a word wiv yer missus, Toby.’
Marie walked down the passage. ‘All right, get inside,’ she barked at her husband. ‘What can I do fer yer, Joe?’
‘Is yer uncle still in the transport business, Marie?’
‘Why, d’yer want ’im ter do a job for yer?’ she asked, grinning.
Joe nodded.
‘Yer better come in,’ she said, showing him into the kitchen.
‘Can yer get word to ’im, Marie? It’s urgent.’
‘Yeah it is, ain’t it?’ she smiled.
Joe looked at her and then at Toby with a puzzled frown. ‘What is it, Marie?’
‘D’you wanna tell ’im or shall I?’ she said, looking at Toby.
‘You tell ’im, girl.’
‘Right. Now ter start wiv, I gotta tell yer I never like goin’ out wivvout me earrin’s in. ’E knows, don’t yer, luv.’
Toby nodded quickly and Marie continued. ‘I was gettin’ ready this evenin’ ter go out wiv me friend from John Street an’ when I come ter put me earrin’s on they ain’t there.’
Joe’s puzzlement was increasing by the second and he stared at Marie, who seemed to be enjoying his bewilderment.
‘I always keep ’em in me Oxo tin, along wiv me ovver bits an’ pieces,’ she went on. ‘Anyway they ain’t there, so I gets ter finkin’. The last time I could remember wearin’ ’em was when I got back from seein’ me mate an’ the siren went. It was the Tuesday o’ last week, wasn’t it? Well, whenever it was, I can vaguely remember takin’ me earrin’s off in the shelter ’cos they was ’urtin’ me ears. I fink I can remember wrappin’ ’em up in me ’ankie an’ puttin’ ’em on the ledge be’ind where I always sit. I’ve searched this ’ouse ’igh an’ low, an’ they’re not anywhere ter be seen. The only fing I could fink of was that I left ’em in the shelter. Well I sent Toby over ter see if they was there an’ as ’e went in the shelter this great big bloke jumped out an’ frightened the bleedin’ life out of ’im. Well, Toby managed ter convince ’im that ’e was a good friend o’ yers an’’e could keep ’is mouth shut.’
‘Bloody ’ell!’ Joe groaned, clapping his hand to his head. ‘Yer could ’ave got yerself mangled. That fella can be dangerous in a corner.’
‘’E’s all right, Joe.’ Toby cut in. ‘We ’ad a nice chat – after’e put me down. ’E told me ’e was out o’ fags so I took ’im some back.’
Joe shook his head slowly. ‘Toby, yer a gem.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Connie Morgan climbed down from the tram and walked slowly past the tall, imposing St Alfege’s Church. Ahead she could see the river wall and smell the sour mud which belched its gases at low tide. A few people strolled past and noisy children hurried down on to the foreshore, eager to see what treasures the ebbing tide had washed and dumped. Above, the clouds were silver-edged as the late rising sun started its climb.
It was a mild Saturday morning in March 1941, and the early spring flowers were spreading their pale colours amidst the grey, austere surroundings. Connie had walked this way many times with Robert and the memories came flooding back to her as she reached the river wall. Together they had scanned the wide flowing Thames, made their plans and dreamed of peaceful times to come. Now she had returned alone. She had wanted to come to this place again, to think and to try to put her confused mind into some sort of order. The months had slipped by so slowly and she had become oppressed by the painful fixed pattern of her life. By day there was the inevitable factory grind and in the evenings the trial of always having to put on a happy face for the customers of the Dolphin. The ritual was harrowing and Connie felt she was being slowly swallowed up by the unbroken emptiness of her routine. Only the glowing feeling in her insides and the feathery lightness in her head made it all bearable, but that agreeable state was no longer easy to reach. It had been easy once, when her tolerance was very low and a couple of whiskies were enough. Now her search for comfort from the drink had started to become dangerous. It was more and more difficult to reach that numb state, and she had started to drink more and more.
The River Thames looked calm and still while overhead screaming, wheeling gulls swooped down and plucked at the bread thrown by noisy children. Connie walked slowly, her head still heavy and hung-over with the effects of the whisky she had consumed the night before. The events of the previous evening were hazy but she remembered the raucous crowd at the end of the counter. She recalled Billy coming into the bar and standing at the counter talking easily and looking relaxed, but after that it all became confused. She had a recollection of a dark-haired individual who was with the crowd and who had gone out of his way to impress her. He had bought her drinks and he had been very complimentary but she could not even remember his name. He was with a brassy woman, and when he had ignored his partner and turned his attentions toward her Connie remembered how angry the woman had become.
The gently turning tide was lapping against the massive wooden stanchions by the pier and it stirred the foreshore mud. For a while Connie rested by the wall, watching the children playing at the water’s edge. Slowly her head began to clear. It was coming back now. She could see Billy’s face and the murderous look in his eyes as he was hustled from the pub. Connie’s head pounded as she breathed in the clear air and gradually her memory of last night’s events became sharper. Billy had come in early and he had stood chatting to her for some time. She remembered how easy it had been to talk to him. He had taken pains with his appearance although his suit was fraying at the cuffs and showing signs of wear at the elbows. He was trying very hard, but it was easy to see that he was still struggling with his own personal demons. She could tell that the noise and the crowd were affecting him, and when the pub started to fill up he had become more and more edgy. There was a look in his eyes, she recalled, a strange, sorrowful look, and it touched her in a way she could not understand. It was when the crowd at the end of the counter became noisy that Billy started to become unsettled. She had been busy serving and she recalled hearing the sudden roar and seeing restraining hands pulling Billy away and pushing him out into the street. Bill French had raved at Billy and told him that unless he controlled his temper he would be barred from the pub in the future. Connie was saddened by the landlord’s outburst. She had grown fond of Billy Argrieves. She liked his sharp sense of humour and his charming manner, and under normal circumstances it would have been quite easy for her to fall for someone like him. He was an attractive man, but she had promised herself that she would not get emotionally involved with anyone. Growing too fond of someone would only bring more heartache and despair. She had already lost everyone who had meant anything to her.
Connie turned her back on the river and strolled slowly towards Greenwich Park. It was there, too, that she had spent many happy hours with Robert and memories rose up swiftly in her mind as she walked into the tranquillity of the leafy avenue and took the path which led up to the observatory. At the top of the hill she turned towards the wide stone promontory and there she sat for a while looking down at the silver band of river and the resting dock cranes. The sun had slipped out from a cloudy sky and the early morning mist had cleared. Her heart was heavy as she stared down at the idle river. It would be so easy to go down to the river when the tide was full and the night was dark. She could slip from the pier and let the cold waters take her. There was no family, no one to grieve. Maybe her father was still living and he might read about her suicide in the papers. Maybe he would mourn for a while, but he would soon forget. After all, he had left Kate and his baby and had made no attempt to return. The realisation knotted Connie’s insides. She experienced a cold fury which grew, and the thoughts of taking her own life disappeared. She stood up suddenly, her hands clenched. If her father was still living she would find him, somehow. She would talk to him and find out what sort of a man it was who would walk away from his responsibilities and just disappear. With burning anger rising in her chest Connie Morgan turned away from the hill and walked back down the steep path and out once more into the morning traffic.