Johnny Swanson (19 page)

When the prison guard took her into the visiting room, Winnie was surprised to see Hutch, large and embarrassed in his best suit, sitting at a tiny table with his bad leg stretched out to one side; but she was thrilled that at last she would have news of her son.

‘How’s Johnny?’ she blurted out, before correcting herself and adding, politely, ‘It’s so kind of you to come, Mr Hutchinson.’

‘Oh, it’s a pleasure,’ said Hutch automatically.
‘Well, not a pleasure, of course, but you know what I mean.’ There was an awkward pause before he continued. ‘I brought you some food from the shop: a little pork pie and some chocolates. But they were confiscated on the way in.’

‘What a shame. But thank you, anyway. Let’s hope the warders enjoy them.’

Hutch was impressed that she had enough spirit to muster a little joke. He took Johnny’s letter from his pocket. ‘They did let me bring this in. They read it first, of course. They said he’s got lovely handwriting.’

‘Yes, he has, hasn’t he?’ said Winnie. ‘I’m so proud of him.’ She held the envelope against her cheek and cried.

Johnny sat alone in the kitchen, wondering how Hutch was getting on, and wishing he could have gone to the jail. As it got dark outside, he could hear carol singers in the street. He didn’t light the lamp. He wanted them to think the house was empty. He couldn’t face Christmas cheer, or the prospect of another visit from the thugs the reporter had seen off the week before. But he opened the door when he heard Hutch coming. He recognized his rhythmical limp in the lane. Johnny hoped that Hutch had
stopped off at the shop on his way back. He was hungry, and it would be nice to have something special for Christmas. But Hutch arrived empty-handed, looking grave.

‘Oh, my boy. What are you doing alone here in the dark?’

‘Nothing. I was just thinking about Mum. How is she?’

Hutch sighed. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose. She’s worried about you, though.’

‘She doesn’t need to be, Hutch. I hope you told her that. I can look after myself.’

‘I told her you were in fine form. But she told me something too – something I should probably have guessed for myself.’ Hutch paused, and looked away. Johnny wondered for a moment if he was about to hear a horrible revelation about the court case. But it was a different thing entirely. Hutch took a breath and announced: ‘Johnny, I know about your Auntie Ada. Your mother has told me all.’

Johnny was caught between relief that the pretence was over and fear that he was in deep trouble. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing Hutch as well as everyone else. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t know how.’

Hutch felt sympathy for the boy, but also outrage at how he had behaved. He tried to stay calm. ‘I have to say, Johnny, that I’m shocked. Shocked and disappointed that you have lied to me for so long. In any other situation, I might look for a way to punish you, and I won’t put up with being deceived again.’ Johnny bowed his head, and Hutch continued in a more friendly tone. ‘But what matters now is that you shouldn’t be here on your own – especially at Christmas. I’d never have let you come back here every night if I’d known. I’ve agreed with your mother that you will come and live with me until this business is over.’

‘Until after the trial you mean,’ said Johnny. ‘They’ll let her out then, won’t they?’

‘Yes,’ said Hutch, trying to sound convinced. ‘It will all be finished then. Now, you run along and get some things together.’

Johnny was back in a trice with a few underclothes tied up in a shirt. Hutch was touched to see that he clung to a toy rabbit as if he would never allow himself to be parted from it. ‘If there’s anything valuable in the house, you’d better bring that too,’ he said. ‘Just in case anyone breaks in while you’re away.’

Johnny put down his things and climbed up to get
the Peace Mug. He went up to Winnie’s room, lifted a loose floorboard, and took out the box in which his mother kept his father’s medals and important family papers. There was nothing else he wanted to take. Except his father’s photograph, of course. But that had already gone.

J
ohnny had never been in the flat above the shop. Compared with his own home it was luxurious, with electric light, lino on the floor, and an indoor bathroom with hot and cold water on tap. At Hutch’s suggestion, Johnny had a bath as soon as he arrived, using expensive soap he had stacked in displays but never seen out of its box. Hutch went downstairs to the shop and got Johnny a toothbrush and some of the newest tooth cleaner, which came as a paste in a tube, and bubbled into a sweet minty foam in his mouth.

Afterwards, Johnny found his way to the kitchen. Hutch was mashing potatoes. The room was quite bare, with lots of empty shelves. ‘I use the shop as my larder,’ Hutch explained. ‘I only bring things up here when I need them.’ Like the bathroom, the kitchen was full of steam. Hutch had speared two holes in the top of a tin of stewed steak and was heating it up in a pan of boiling water on a trim little gas stove. He had
pudding ready alongside: a can of pineapple chunks and a tin of condensed milk. Johnny had seen it advertised in the paper.
Doctors tell other doctors what wonderful results they have had with Nestles Milk
, said the advertisement. He’d thought of stealing that line for one of his own enterprises. But he supposed there wouldn’t be any more of them now.

Johnny watched, hungry and amazed, as Hutch stirred large knobs of butter into the potatoes. He kept Hutch talking about the visit to his mother; but he knew the question that was bound to come, and eventually Hutch found the words:

‘Now then, Johnny,’ he said gravely. ‘If there never was an Auntie Ada, where did all those postal orders come from?’

Haltingly at first, but then with relief, excitement and even a hint of pride, Johnny told Hutch everything, from the Secret of Instant Height through to the Poetry Police and Confidentially Yours.

Hutch tried to be kind, well aware of the torment Johnny was enduring, but he couldn’t disguise his disapproval of what the boy had done.

‘This can’t go on. Good heavens, Johnny! Can’t you see why it’s wrong? Can’t you imagine how those people you tricked are feeling?’

‘I don’t need to imagine. I know. They did it to me first, remember?’

‘But that doesn’t mean you can do it to other people! It doesn’t excuse making total strangers send you money for nothing!’

‘They always got something. Even if it wasn’t exactly what they were expecting.’

‘And what’s all this about you selling stamps?’

‘I haven’t been selling them.’

‘You said they were portraits of the King. People paid for them. That’s selling stamps.’

‘Oh.’

‘And selling unused stamps is against the law. If you’re not a properly qualified postmaster, that is. I should know. I can show you a copy of the regulations if you want.’

‘I didn’t realize—’

‘And it’s worse than that. Presumably, to make any money, you must have been selling stamps at more than their face value?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, when you sent someone one of these “official portraits”, how much did you charge?’

‘A shilling.’

‘And you sent them one-shilling stamps?’

‘Of course not. Penny stamps; threepenny stamps; sixpenny stamps. It depended on what I had at the time.’

‘So you were making a profit.’

‘That was the point.’

Hutch thumped the table. ‘But that makes it even worse. It’s a crime, Johnny. You have committed a crime! Here we are with your mother unjustly imprisoned and you really
are
a criminal. I should turn you in, Johnny. I might even lose my job if I don’t.’

Johnny was blinking hard, trying not to cry. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said weakly. ‘I was only trying to help.’

Hutch was still angry. ‘Well, you haven’t helped, have you?’

‘I’ve got enough money to pay the rent.’

Hutch couldn’t stop himself. His next words spilled out before he could think. ‘But your mother might die!’

The silence that followed wrenched at them both. Eventually Hutch had to break it. He could see that Johnny was on the verge of tears. Hutch was calmer, but still stern. ‘Well, Johnny, it’s all got to stop now, hasn’t it? I’m not going to tell the police: for your mother’s sake, if nothing else. But if any more letters
come to that private box, we’ll just return them unopened to the main sorting office.’

‘No, you can’t do that!’ cried Johnny, thinking of the advert in the personal column of
The Times
. He explained how he was looking for Mrs Langford in the hope that she would be able to help prove Winnie’s innocence. ‘You see, Hutch, it’s not just that Mrs Langford can tell everyone what a good woman my mother is. She can give new evidence.’

‘Like what, exactly?’

‘For a start, she knows my mother didn’t have any keys to her house. The police don’t believe Mum, but they’d believe Mrs Langford.’ Johnny wondered whether he should break his promise and tell Hutch about the BCG. He started cautiously: ‘And there’s another thing.
Someone
killed Dr Langford, and if it wasn’t Mum, it must have been somebody with a reason. Mrs Langford might know who it was, and why.’

Johnny was surprised by Hutch’s response. ‘Your mother was talking about that too,’ he said. ‘She’s been running over in her mind everything she knows about the Langfords, looking for a motive for the murder. And she thinks it might have been something to do with the doctor’s work. I thought he’d retired
completely, but apparently he was still keeping his hand in. He’d hinted to your mother that he was involved with some sort of new medicine. Something to do with TB.’

‘Phthisis,’ said Johnny.

Hutch jolted with shock. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said, thinking Johnny had used a dirty word.

‘Phthisis. It’s another word for TB.’ Johnny felt his way cautiously, wondering how much Winnie knew, and what she had told Hutch. ‘Dr Langford told me about it. He was hoping they’d find a cure.’

‘Well, your mother thinks he might have done that, or that he knew a way to stop people getting it in the first place. He told her about some vaccine they’ve developed in France. It’s called BBC or something.’

Johnny realized that Dr Langford had been incapable of keeping his mouth shut. It bolstered his theory that the killer was a medical rival or a blackmailer who had found out what the doctor was doing. He felt relief wash over him. He wasn’t really breaking a confidence by talking about the BCG. The doctor had told Winnie; and now she’d told Hutch. Surely it didn’t count as a secret any more?

‘Mum’s right,’ he said. ‘Has she told the police?’

‘She’s tried to. But they won’t take any notice. They don’t want to hear about anything that spoils their case against her. And anyway, she doesn’t know for certain that it’s true.’

‘But it is. Dr Langford told me himself. He was involved with someone who’s making the vaccine.’

‘Who? Where?’

‘All I know is that they’re working in a laboratory “in the wilds” – somewhere they won’t be found. I heard Dr Langford say that.’

Hutch was despondent. ‘So it could be anyone, anywhere. What good is that?’

‘If we could find Mrs Langford in France, we could ask her where the laboratory is. And we could warn her. She might be in danger too.’

‘But how can we track her down when the police can’t?’

‘Do you think they’re really trying? I went to the police station to tell them all this, and they wouldn’t even listen. If they’ve decided Mum did the murder, why would they want to look for someone else? Why should they spend a fortune trying to find Mrs Langford abroad?’

Hutch shook his head. ‘It looks as if it’s all down to us now, Johnny.’

‘I’ve tried to trace her. I’ve done that advert.’

‘But if Mrs Langford’s in France, she’s hardly likely to see it, is she?’ said Hutch. ‘I think we need to do another advertisement, Johnny – something bigger that stands a better chance of being noticed. We can ask anyone who knows Mrs Langford’s whereabouts to get in touch.’ He paused for thought. ‘And we need to put it in all the major national and regional papers so that whoever was working with Dr Langford might see it.’

‘But that will cost a fortune.’

‘Don’t worry, son, I’ll pay. But I think we’d better keep our identities secret, don’t you, just in case the murderer gets the idea we’re on his trail?’

‘You mean …?’

‘Yes,’ Hutch sighed. ‘Auntie Ada can have one more outing. And we’ll use her private box as the address for the reply.’

H
utch made up a bed in the spare room at the back of the flat. Johnny lay down surrounded by boxes of official Post Office forms which Hutch felt were too important to be kept in the stockroom downstairs alongside the custard powder and fish paste. He clutched his old rabbit, just as he had at the beginning of this business, on the night when he’d wet himself after the revelation that the Secret of Instant Height was a trick. He was exhausted, but unable to get to sleep in the unfamiliar surroundings; and he was excited by the idea of having Hutch to help him search for Mrs Langford and the real murderer. He wondered who it was. It had to be someone who knew about the BCG. Another doctor perhaps? Maybe someone from France? It could even be the man with that useless drug from Africa. After all, he’d be out of business if someone found a way to stop people getting TB. Johnny tried to remember the name at the top of the advert Mrs Langford had thrown onto the
fire after Dr Langford’s joke about the Wimbledon racket. Umba … Umca … Umcka … Umckaloabo. He drifted off at last to the exotic rhythm of the word. He had completely forgotten that tomorrow would be Christmas Day.

Hutch hadn’t, and Johnny woke to find presents at the end of his bed. He knew where they had come from. He recognized the chocolates, jellies and candied fruit he had unpacked when they’d been delivered to the shop weeks before, and which had so spectacularly failed to sell since his mother’s arrest. Of course he knew that Hutch must have crept downstairs to fetch them in the middle of the night, but somehow he almost believed in Santa Claus for the first time in years. The Christmas lunch he and Hutch enjoyed together was the most lavish meal he had ever eaten, but he couldn’t really enjoy it because the person he loved most in the world wasn’t there.