Johnny Swanson (14 page)

At the sound of Winnie’s name, the policeman drew himself upright and adopted a more formal tone. ‘Mrs Swanson is here, yes. But I’m afraid you can’t see her. We don’t let children in to see the prisoners. This isn’t a playground. Only adult relatives or legal representatives.’

‘But she hasn’t got any adult relatives.’

‘Don’t be silly, boy. Everyone’s got adult relatives.’

‘But …’ Once again Johnny got the silent message that arguing would only make things worse. He tried
asking a question instead. ‘When will she be coming home?’

‘Not for some time, I should think, son. Though it’s not my place to say. Your mother is in a great deal of trouble. Murder is a capital offence.’

A capital offence. Johnny knew what that meant, but hearing the policeman say the words made him admit to himself, for the first time, that there was a chance that Winnie would be put to death. A capital offence meant the gallows. Murderers were hanged. In all the agony of last night, Johnny had never imagined that he might lose his mother for ever. He was suddenly drenched in sweat. There was a rush of sickly acid from his stomach to his throat. Surely, now that the police had talked to Winnie all night – now that they could see how quiet and gentle she was, and she’d had a chance to explain everything – surely they couldn’t believe that she was guilty? And yet this policeman seemed to think it was possible. It was all a dreadful mistake. Johnny tried to say so, but the officer silenced him.

‘Now be on your way. I’m a busy man.’

‘Please would you tell her that I came? Tell her Johnny was here?’

‘Do I look as if I have time to pass on messages?’

Johnny stopped himself saying yes. ‘But if she asks …’

He had gone too far. The policeman had had enough, and wanted to get back to his breakfast.

‘Look, son. I’ve got work to do. And you should be getting off to school, shouldn’t you?’

‘But …’ It was no good. ‘Please give her my love,’ Johnny called as he went back through the swing doors. He ran to the shop in tears, imagining his mother alone in a cell, facing the death penalty.

Hutch returned looking ashen, and mumbling swear words under his breath. ‘You’re going to have to be careful, Johnny,’ he said. ‘There are people out there who have decided your mother is guilty before she’s even been charged. I don’t dare repeat some of the things I’ve heard this morning.’

‘She didn’t do it, Hutch.’

‘I know, son. I’m sure she can’t have done. But the police seem to think they have enough evidence against her. They’re not looking for anyone else. If we knew as much as the police, perhaps we could prove that they should.’

‘How can we find out?’

‘Well, if your mother could afford a fancy lawyer,
he’d check everything. But I know there’s no money for that. It looks as if it’s down to you and me, son.’

Someone was tapping on the shop door.

Hutch shouted, ‘We’re not open till nine o’clock,’ without looking up. The knocking continued. It was the reporter again, signalling with fancy hand gestures that he wanted to use the phone.

‘I’d better let him in,’ said Hutch. ‘And anyway, he might have some new information. You go and sit in the stockroom. I don’t want him to know you’re here.’

Hutch tried to get on the right side of the reporter as soon as he opened the door. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize it was you,’ he said. ‘You’re up early.’

‘I’ve got to move fast on this one,’ said the reporter. ‘I want to get everything I can into the early edition. If they charge her, we won’t be able to print much until she comes up in court.’

‘And how long will that be?’

‘Well, there’ll have to be a remand hearing very soon if they want to keep her in custody, but the magistrates can put big restrictions on how much of that we can report. The police will make their case for holding her in jail, but we can’t put all the evidence in the paper in case it influences a future jury.’

‘And have the police got a good case?’ asked Hutch.

‘Seems like it to me. She was seen there on the night of the murder, and her apron was found at the scene, soaked in the doctor’s blood. It certainly sounds as if she’s the criminal type. I’ve been talking to that Miss Dangerfield. She’s told me all about her.’

Johnny was tempted to burst out of his hiding place and punch the man, or at least to tell him what a nasty, cruel woman Miss Dangerfield was. But he stayed where he was, listening, as the reporter continued:

‘And this Swanson woman had a motive. The police know why she went to the Langfords’ house. They owed her money.’

Johnny had another clong. He felt shaky, and his mouth was dry. He realized why the police thought his mother had a motive for murdering the Langfords. He had told them. He had explained to the constable the night before that Winnie hadn’t been paid, and he had said that she was angry, though he hadn’t dared say why. He’d even described Winnie’s apron: the pink one with the dainty daisies. So Johnny was as much to blame as Miss Dangerfield. He had given the police a reason to believe that his own mother was a killer.

The reporter went to the phone. He closed the
door on the little kiosk, but Hutch and Johnny could still make out what he was saying to his editor. He was relishing the story. It involved High Society now: for the suspect had revealed that the Langfords had entertained young Mr Bennett and his fiancée to supper on Remembrance Day – the last day that anyone had seen them alive. Now the detectives were planning to drive over to the Bennett mansion to talk to the most powerful man in town.

‘I’d better hurry,’ the reporter yelled down the phone. ‘I want to get there before the police do.’

It gave Johnny an idea. This was his chance to get close to the men in charge of the investigation – to find out what they knew, and to persuade them that Winnie couldn’t possibly be guilty.

W
ithout a word to Hutch, Johnny ran out of the shop before the reporter had even put down the receiver. He dived into the back of the reporter’s car, cramming himself down onto the floor and pulling some of the rubbish from the seat on top of himself in the hope of being camouflaged. A minute later, the reporter jumped into the front, lit up a cigarette, and accelerated away. With his ear pressed against the floor of the car, Johnny heard the rumble of the main road, dull thumps as they turned onto a country lane, splashes as the wheels rocked through puddles, and then the crunch of gravel as the car drew up outside Mr Bennett’s grand house.

The reporter got out, leaving his door open. Through a gap under the seat, Johnny saw him walk across to talk to a man who was washing Mr Bennett’s car.

The reporter stroked the bonnet. ‘Quite a beast. A Phantom Two, isn’t it?’

‘Watch it,’ snapped the man, wiping the part the reporter had touched. ‘I’ve just polished that bit.’

‘Sorry. Takes a bit of looking after, I should think?’

‘The engine’s fine, but it’s like any other car: if you drive through the countryside, you have to clean off the mud. Mr Bennett wants it spick and span for this afternoon.’

‘Where’s he off to?’

The handyman stopped rubbing the car and looked quizzically at the reporter. ‘Who wants to know?’

The reporter drew closer to the man, and offered him a cigarette. Johnny couldn’t hear everything now, but from the tone of the mumbled words he guessed that the reporter was trying to get information about Mr Bennett, and to talk his way into the house. Johnny was scared that it wouldn’t work. If the reporter was sent away, his own journey would be wasted. So he wriggled over to the other side of the car and opened the door as quietly as he could. Then he slithered out and crawled into some shrubs by the front door. The winter leaves were sparse. If the reporter turned round, he would be certain to spot Johnny curled up there, trying to hide. But Johnny was saved when a police car rolled in and pulled up right by the flowerbed.

A man got out and planted his huge foot within inches of Johnny’s head. He was wearing ordinary shoes, not the boots that uniformed policemen had. His brown raincoat almost brushed against Johnny’s face. Johnny was frightened, but he was glad he’d come. These were real plain-clothes detectives: the top men. Fortunately the man by the flowerbed didn’t detect Johnny. He strode straight over to the Rolls-Royce, and after some stern words the reporter got back in his car and drove away. Another policeman rang the doorbell and spoke to the butler, who let the visitors in and closed the door. Johnny crept round the outside of the house, trying to get out of sight of the handyman, who was polishing the car again. He was hoping to find another way into the house.

The back door was open, and there was no one around. Johnny could hear the butler in the distance, talking to the policemen.

‘If you would be so good as to wait in here, gentlemen, I will tell Mr Bennett that you wish to see him.’

Johnny made his way in the direction of the voices. He followed a dark corridor leading from the servants’ area to the front of the house, and stopped where the drab linoleum met the polished marble of the circular entrance hall: a vast open space, with
doors all round the edge, lit by a dome of glass. He saw the butler emerge from a room on one side of the ring and walk across to another, directly opposite. Johnny guessed that the policemen were in the first room and Mr Bennett in the second. There was an ornate coat-rack on the wall to his left, not far from the door to the policemen’s room. He recognized the overcoat Bennett had worn on Remembrance Day, and his girlfriend’s long fur cloak. He heard voices: Mr Bennett and the butler were about to come out and cross the hall. If Johnny stayed where he was, they were bound to see him. If he went back down the corridor, he might not be able to hear what they were saying. On impulse, he ran round the edge of the room and slid behind the fur cloak. It almost covered him, but didn’t quite reach the floor. He reached up, grabbed the hook, bent his knees and pulled his feet out of view just in time. It was just as well. The policemen heard Bennett coming and strode into the hall to meet him. Johnny had to stay very still. His arm ached with the strain of supporting his weight, and he wedged his feet against the wall to get steady. With his other hand, he felt a slit in the side of the cloak, where the lady would have put her arms through. He slowly pulled it up to his face. The fur
tickled his nose, but he could see now. The butler looked annoyed. No doubt he thought the policemen should have stayed where he had put them, but Johnny was glad they hadn’t. In the echoing rotunda he could hear every word.

‘That will be all, Maxwell,’ said Bennett, and the butler nodded an automatic ‘Very good, sir.’ He strode off, almost brushing against the fur cloak on his way to the servants’ corridor.

Frederick Bennett had not been up long, and was still in his dressing gown. He’d been toying with his breakfast when Maxwell had announced that the police wanted to see him, and he’d come to meet them with the newspaper in one hand and a piece of toast in the other.

‘A bad business,’ he said, using the toast to point to the story about the murder. ‘Langford was our family physician, you know. Perhaps that’s why you’ve come?’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said the older of the two detectives, who introduced himself as Inspector Griffin. ‘We were wondering if you might be able to throw some light on the Langfords’ whereabouts for the past month. We gather that you and your fiancée dined with them on November the eleventh.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Mr Bennett, ‘though Miss Carmichael and I are not engaged to be married, Inspector. We never were, and I’m pleased to say that we never will be. Miss Carmichael has returned to her job at the Gaiety Theatre in London.’

The inspector gave Bennett an understanding smile. The tale of a rich young man temporarily infatuated with a show girl was a familiar one. He returned to the point. ‘It seems that you may have been the last people to see the Langfords before they disappeared.’

‘Disappeared?’ Bennett sprayed crumbs from his mouth as he finished the last of his toast. ‘They didn’t disappear, Inspector. Whatever gave you that idea? No. They went to France. They may have left a bit abruptly, but they told me they were going.’ The junior detective got out a notebook and started writing as Bennett continued. ‘They talked about it over supper that night. I remember clearly. Mrs Langford received a telephone call while we were there. One of her relatives – a cousin, I think – was seriously ill. They were going over to visit her – to see if they could help. I imagine it’s quite useful to have a retired doctor in the family at a time like that.’

‘I dare say,’ said the inspector. ‘So you are sure they both went?’

‘Yes, but Mrs Langford wrote to tell me that her husband was on his way back. The letter came only the other day. I may still have it. Would you like me to try to find it?’

‘That would be very good of you, sir,’ said the inspector. Johnny could tell he was trying not to show too much enthusiasm about a possible lead.

‘Come this way then, gentlemen,’ said Bennett, leading them into a third room, right next to the coat-stand. When they were all inside, Johnny let his feet drop to the floor and shook out his aching arm. Then he edged along to look round the door-frame. It was Mr Bennett’s study. He was facing the window, rummaging through large piles of papers on the desk. The two detectives stood on either side of him. To Johnny’s relief, all three had their backs to him.

‘It should be here somewhere,’ said Bennett, ‘unless I threw it out straight away. To be honest, I only glanced at it when it arrived. It didn’t seem very important at the time.’

‘I quite understand, sir,’ said Inspector Griffin, ‘but do please have a look, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’ve had a tremendous amount of correspondence since my father died: letters of condolence, family business, and so on. Things still aren’t straight after
more than a year. There are rather a lot of bills, I’m afraid – what with the state of the stock market, and death duties, of course. You know how it is.’

The inspector grunted sympathetically as Bennett leafed through his paperwork.