Authors: Eleanor Updale
Had he been less tired, Hutch would not have risen to the bait. But he was worried about Johnny, and about the possible return of the policeman, and the one thing he could not stand was cynicism about his duties as an employee of the Post Office.
‘Standards are the same for everyone involved in public life,’ he said.
‘Public life! That’s raising your status rather high, isn’t it, Mr Hutchinson? Selling stamps, fruitcakes and carrots counts as “public life” now, does it? I’ll try to remember that I’m in the presence of an eminent
public official when I next pop in for some toilet paper!’
Before he had finished the last word, Hutch was off his stool and had the reporter by the lapels. They were both ex-army men. They both knew how to fight. The reporter had the advantage of height; Hutch had bulk, and familiarity with the terrain. He knew just when he could reach out and grab a jug or a wooden butter-pat to use as a weapon. The two of them wrestled and rolled, bringing jars of sweets down from the shelves. Soon the floor was covered in bulls’-eyes, pear drops and cough-candy twists. The reporter lurched towards Hutch and slipped on some humbugs. He grasped for something to steady him, but only found one of the bags of flour Johnny had filled the day before. The packet exploded under the force of his grasp, showering both men with white powder. The reporter picked up the high stool and swung it round, hoping to knock Hutch off balance. Hutch caught the other end of it, and tried to change its trajectory. The reporter pushed back, and the two of them lurched and skidded towards the front of the shop. Then, at the last minute, the reporter let go of his end, and Hutch was pulled by his own weight right through the front door, splintering the wood and breaking the glass.
It was not his lucky night. He landed right on top of the policeman, who had come to report that an angry judge, called away from a delightful dinner party, had refused to issue a warrant for the information about PO Box 9.
The equally angry constable took great pleasure in escorting the sub-postmaster and the reporter to the police station.
I
n Wales, the sergeant was on the phone, making arrangements for a special van to take his prisoners to Stambleton.
‘What about me?’ asked Johnny, rummaging in his pocket. ‘I’ve got a return ticket, but it’s getting late. I might not be able to catch a train tonight.’
Professor Campbell broke in while the sergeant continued his phone call in the background. ‘I’m sure I could make arrangements for you to stay here.’
‘Thank you,’ said Johnny, trying not to sound as unenthusiastic as he felt. ‘And, Professor, if you don’t mind, there’s something I want to talk to you about.’ He was remembering his promise. ‘It’s Olwen, sir.’ Johnny told Professor Campbell how Olwen had been orphaned, and how badly the nurse had treated her.
Olwen gave way to tears again. The professor enfolded her into a hug. Her slight body sank into the soft folds of his Ugly Sister dress.
‘Don’t cry, my dear, we will sort this out too,’ the professor said kindly.
‘Is Olwen very ill?’ asked Johnny. ‘Does she really need to stay here?’
‘No, the symptoms she came in with have cleared up. It wasn’t TB after all. In fact, she shows all the signs of immunity. I’ve thought for some time that she could be discharged. We’ve been having trouble contacting her relatives.’
‘My uncle’s dumped me,’ sniffed Olwen. ‘And now I’ll be here for ever.’
‘Can’t she come home with me?’ asked Johnny.
‘Does she have relatives in Stambleton who could look after her?’
‘Well, no,’ said Johnny. ‘Not family, exactly. But there’s a farmer who knew her parents. I don’t know his name. Or better still, the postmaster. He looks after me. He’s called Mr Hutchinson …’
‘I can’t let Olwen go to just anyone. We must get permission from her legal guardian. She will have to stay here for now. But we will look into the matter. Perhaps you could ask this Mr Hutchinson to get in touch with me?’
‘I should phone him anyway,’ said Johnny. ‘He must be wondering what’s happened to me. I need to tell
him I won’t be coming home tonight. He might be worried.’
The sergeant finished his conversation and put down the receiver. ‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘We’re going to take you. Inspector Griffin’s given us permission to commandeer Mr Bennett’s car. He wants it back in Stambleton so they can search it for evidence. I’ll be driving you myself.’
Johnny could hear angry shouts from Bennett in the police van as the sergeant opened the door of his precious limousine.
‘Why don’t you go in the back, son,’ said the policeman. ‘It’s a long way, and you’ll be able to lie down and get some sleep. Look. There’s a blanket here.’ Johnny slid across the shiny leather seat. The sergeant shook out the soft woollen travelling rug and tucked it around Johnny’s legs.
‘I’m not tired,’ said Johnny. His excitement at being in a car at all was immense, but to be in this car, a Rolls-Royce Phantom II, made his blood fizz. On his only other rides he’d been hidden on the floor of the reporter’s battered Morris Oxford, and bounced around in the farmer’s ageing van. He didn’t want to miss a moment of this journey.
Settling into the driver’s seat, the sergeant fumbled
around until the headlights came on and the engine purred into life; then he pulled out of the courtyard, followed by the police van. Olwen stood on the steps of the building waving, and the professor flapped his fan in a final farewell.
H
ours later, Hutch and the reporter were still sitting on an uncomfortable bench in a corridor at Stambleton police station. Hutch was worrying about Johnny. What if he got back to discover the door bashed down and the shop ransacked? He wanted to tell a policeman about Johnny, but he didn’t want the reporter to hear, even though they had long since patched up their quarrel. In any case, the desk sergeant was busy with something else. The phone was ringing well after midnight. A couple of drunks were taken out of the cells and allowed to go home. Plain-clothes detectives arrived, including Inspector Griffin. Hutch recognized him from Winnie’s court hearing. He knew Griffin was a very important policeman. He hoped he hadn’t been called in to deal with the fight in the shop. A criminal conviction could mean the end of Hutch’s Post Office career.
At one a.m. there was a shout of ‘They’re here!’ and all the staff who were on duty gathered by the door.
‘They made good time,’ said a constable.
‘Well, they had a fast car,’ said another. ‘Kindly supplied by one of the prisoners.’ Everybody laughed.
The reporter sensed that he might be missing a story, and tried to join the crowd of policemen. He was manhandled back to his place. A few minutes later, a strange procession of tired, deflated people passed by the bench he shared with Hutch. First came Mrs Langford, handcuffed to a stocky policeman wearing an unfamiliar uniform. She was stooping, and looked ten years older than she had before her husband was killed. Behind her was a young man in a white lab coat with his hands chained together. Even so, he managed to raise them to his mouth to nibble his nails. He was followed by another officer, manacled to a well-dressed man who was trying to shield his face with his hat. The reporter had to be forced back to his seat again when he saw that it was Frederick Bennett. At the end of the line – the only one who was smiling – was Johnny Swanson. The grumpy desk officer had shown no reservations about letting him into the building this time.
Johnny ran over to Hutch, babbling on about Mrs Langford being the murderer, and how his mother would have to be freed.
‘Thank you so much for coming, Hutch. I’m sorry they’ve kept you up so late. It was a long drive.’ Johnny couldn’t disguise how much he had enjoyed his trip in Mr Bennett’s grand car, even if the policeman who’d driven it had sometimes shown a dizzying unfamiliarity with the controls.
Hutch was embarrassed. He came clean. ‘The fact is, Johnny old chap, I didn’t know you were on your way. I got here under my own steam, you might say.’
Johnny didn’t understand. But he did notice that Hutch and the reporter were both covered in a dusting of flour, with patches of unidentified foodstuffs sprayed across their dishevelled clothes.
Hutch began an explanation. ‘This gentleman and I had a bit of a …’
‘A bit of an altercation, you might say,’ said the reporter.
‘About what?’ asked Johnny.
Neither of them wanted to admit that it had been, at least in part, about Johnny and his mother.
‘Good question,’ said the reporter. ‘I really can’t remember.’
Inspector Griffin approached them. ‘Mr Hutchinson, I believe,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘I must apologize for my behaviour,’ said Hutch,
assuming that Griffin had come to question him about the fight at the shop.
‘Never mind that,’ said Griffin. ‘It was your own property you damaged, and if this gentleman is prepared to let the matter drop, I think we can forget the whole episode. The person I’m most eager to talk to is this young chap.’ He tousled Johnny’s bouncy curls. ‘Mr Hutchinson, would you care to sit in? I understand that you’ve been looking after Johnny while his mother’s been … away.’
‘Of course,’ said Hutch, and he accompanied Johnny into the interview room, where the three of them sat down at a small bare table. Inspector Griffin took notes as Johnny explained what had happened in Wales, summed up the vaccine plot, and described how Dr Langford had died.
Inspector Griffin scratched his head. ‘Thank you, Johnny,’ he said. ‘I think I understand. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘It’s really Mum I wanted to help,’ said Johnny. ‘She can come home now, can’t she?’
‘Yes, indeed. There’ll be some formalities, but we’ll get her back to you as soon as we can.’
‘What will happen to Mrs Langford and the others?’ asked Johnny. ‘Will they all be hanged?’
‘I can’t say. Dr Howell should get away with a prison stretch. It sounds as if he’s guilty of contravening the Therapeutic Medicines Act, and of obstructing the police; but things look bad for Mrs Langford, despite her age – and Bennett certainly seems to be implicated in covering up the murder, even if he didn’t strike the fatal blow. Don’t worry, Johnny. You’re safe. We’ll be keeping them under lock and key until we can confirm what you’ve told us.’
‘It’s all true, I promise.’
‘Yes, Johnny,’ the inspector said kindly, ‘I believe you, but there’s no way a court would accept your word as evidence on its own. With a bit of luck, the three of them will speak out against each other, but the trouble is, a jury might think they’re each trying to save their own skin. We really need someone else too. If only there were another, adult, witness to all this.’
‘I was thinking on the way home,’ said Johnny. ‘There is somebody else – someone who might have heard Bennett and Mrs Langford plan the BCG scam, at least, and may even know the truth about the murder.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Mr Bennett’s girlfriend,’ said Johnny. ‘She was
there on Remembrance Day. She went to supper at the Langfords’ that night. I’ve been wondering what happened to her.’
‘Bennett said they had parted,’ the inspector said.
‘I know,’ said Johnny. ‘I was there when he told you.’
Inspector Griffin raised an eyebrow.
‘I didn’t mean to listen in, but I was hiding. I’d gone to see Mr Bennett myself, but you asked him everything I wanted to know,’ Johnny confessed.
‘I’m glad to hear that you approve of my methods,’ laughed Griffin. ‘I recall him saying that the young lady was now performing at the Gaiety Theatre in London. I will make contact with her in the morning.’
‘But the thing is,’ Johnny continued excitedly, ‘what if she’s not there?’
‘Why shouldn’t she be?’
‘Because her cloak was still in Mr Bennett’s house the morning after Dr Langford’s body was found. I know. I was hiding behind it.’
Hutch let out an exasperated sigh, and Griffin shook his head. ‘It sounded to me as if she went away after a disagreement,’ he said. ‘Maybe she flounced off without it.’
‘But suppose …’ said Johnny. Then he saw the
look on Hutch’s face, and was reminded of all his warnings about jumping to conclusions.
The policeman wanted to hear more. ‘What are you suggesting?’ he asked.
‘Only that there might, possibly, be something suspicious about her disappearance too,’ said Johnny, stopping himself from making wild allegations.
Inspector Griffin was lost in thought for a moment. ‘Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’ he asked.
‘No. Just you,’ said Johnny. ‘And Hutch knows now, of course.’
Hutch put his finger to his lips. ‘I won’t tell a soul,’ he said.
Inspector Griffin’s tone was serious. ‘I’d appreciate your silence, sir. We will follow up this lead first thing in the morning. This could be an even more convoluted case than I thought.’
Hutch stretched out his bad leg and stifled a yawn. ‘Is that all for tonight, Inspector? I’m sure you’ll agree that Johnny should really be in bed.’
‘Yes. We can talk again tomorrow.’ Griffin closed his notebook. ‘But before you go,’ he said casually, ‘tell me, Johnny, how did you know that Howell, Bennett and Mrs Langford were going to meet at Craig-y-Nos last night?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Johnny. ‘I’d never even heard of Craig-y-Nos until Mrs Langford replied to one of my advertisements.’
Hutch put his head in his hands.
The inspector was bemused. ‘Your what, Johnny?’
‘Well, you see, I put in this advert’ – he knew it off by heart – ‘
Change Your Appearance Permanently. Unhappy with the way you look? Transform yourself Instantly and For Ever.
’
Hutch could see Inspector Griffin registering that Johnny was probably the culprit in the case of PO Box 9.
Griffin was silent for a moment and then spoke sternly. ‘You may not be aware, Johnny, that while you’ve been in Wales this force has been dealing with an allegation of fraud in relation to advertisements very like the one you’ve described.’
Johnny had another clong. With a few unguarded words he had landed himself in trouble. He felt sick with shame. He had already faced Hutch’s wrath over his adverts. Now the police knew. He had heard of guilty children being tried in the juvenile courts and sent away to special schools. Would that happen to him, just when his mother was coming home? Had he messed things up yet again? Would Winnie’s freedom be laced with new worry and grief?