The Girl from Cotton Lane (40 page)

Despite their injuries Carrie felt quite relieved as she walked on towards Tower Bridge and turned into the backstreets, and could not help smiling to herself at their cheeky mood. Ahead of her she saw the Druid Street arches and her heart beat a little faster. The excuse she had invented for Fred was feeble but she had to see Joe.

Her father was in the office and when he saw her peering through the window he hurried to let her in.

‘What’s wrong, gel?’ he asked in a worried voice.

‘There’s nuffink wrong, Dad, unless yer call gettin’ nicked wrong.’

‘Who’s bin nicked?’

‘Danny an’ that mad-brain Billy Sullivan,’ she told him. ‘They got involved in some pushin’ an’ shovin’ up at Canal Bridge an’ they got charged wiv disorderly conduct.’

William shook his head slowly. ‘What the bloody ’ell was the pair of ’em doin’ up there?’ he asked her.

‘Lookin’ for a bit of excitement if the trufe’s known,’ Carrie said, smiling. ‘Anyway, I thought I’d drop in while I was up this way. I wanted ter get Joe to ’old back on that next delivery fer a couple o’ weeks. There was ’ardly anybody in the cafe terday, an’ it won’t get any better while the strike lasts.’

William sat down heavily in his chair. ‘’E’s not in terday, Carrie,’ he told her.

The young woman sat talking with her father for a few minutes then she looked up at the clock. ‘I’d better be making a move, Dad,’ she said, ‘there’s still work ter be done.’

Once out in the street she hurried towards Joe’s flat, eager to have him hold her in his arms once more. Their meetings had been all too infrequent lately and she could hardly wait to be with him again and cherish the fleeting time they would have together.

Tower Bridge Road seemed very quiet without the usual noise of the buses and trams, and here and there small groups of workers were standing around talking quietly. Carrie could not get rid of the guilty feeling that persisted inside her. Normally she would have shrugged such feelings off, but today was different. Fred had looked far from well and he appeared to be worrying about something. He had hardly spoken to her all morning and even Bessie had remarked that he looked queer.

Carrie reached the tin factory just aross from Bermondsey Square but hesitated to cross the road when she spotted the smart black car parked outside Joe’s front door. A chauffeur was standing by it with his hands clasped behind his back and glancing up at Joe’s window. She had a terrible feeling something was wrong, and walked on a few paces, stopping at a dressmaker’s shop opposite the square. She could see the reflection of the car in the window and suddenly Joe appeared, accompanied by two men who seemed to be holding his arms. Carrie turned to see her lover being bundled into the car, then it pulled away quickly and sped off in the direction of Tower Bridge.

Her heart sank and she suddenly felt physically sick. Joe had always laughed away her fears for his safety but she had known all along that he felt himself to be in danger. The men who had taken him looked evil, and the way he was bundled into the car left her in no doubt that he was in mortal danger. For a few moments Carrie stood outside the dressmaker’s shop feeling helpless, not knowing what to do, then she quickly turned and set off in the direction of the tram stop.

It was nearly three o’clock by the time she got back to the cafe and as soon as she entered the door she knew there was something wrong by the look on Bessie’s pale face.

‘Fred’s bin took bad, Carrie,’ she said. ‘’E’s in the Rovver’ithe Infirmary.’

‘What’s wrong wiv ’im?’ Carrie asked nervously, trying to steel herself for another awful shock.

‘’E jus’ collapsed in the kitchen. It was terrible,’ Bessie blurted out, her voice breaking as she reached for a handkerchief. ‘I ’eard a bang an’ when I looked round there ’e was lyin’ on ’is back. ’E was frothin’ at the mouth an’ I didn’t know what ter do. Lucky fer us there was a couple o’ carmen sittin’ outside an’ they come in an’ put a coat under ’is ’ead an’ made ’im comfortable. I phoned for the ambulance an’ the driver said ’e reckons it could be a stroke.’

‘Oh my Gawd!’ Carrie gasped. ‘I must go to ’im. Can yer see ter fings ’ere, Bessie?’

‘Of course I can. Off yer go now, luv. I do ’ope ’e’ll be all right.’

Carrie hurried along the Jamaica Road feeling as though the day had gone mad. Danny and Billy arrested, Joe was in serious trouble, and now her husband was in hospital. Her head was thumping painfully as she quickly walked through the infirmary gates and went up to the reception desk. The elderly woman was infuriatingly slow in looking through the records and when Carrie finally reached the ward she was met by the ward sister.

‘Fred Bradley,’ she said, dreading what she might hear.

‘The doctor’s with your husband now, Mrs Bradley,’ the sister said. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? You look all in.’

Before Carrie had finished her tea the doctor peered into the sister’s office. ‘Mrs Bradley?’ he enquired.

Carrie stood up quickly but the doctor motioned her back into her chair. ‘Your husband’s a very sick man, Mrs Bradley,’ he told her gravely.

‘Was it a stroke, Doctor?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I’m afraid it was,’ he said.

‘Will ’e be all right?’ Carrie blurted out, close to tears.

‘It’s too early to say,’ the doctor told her, stroking his chin thoughtfully. ‘We don’t know how much of the brain is affected as yet, but I think we can say that it’s unlikely he’ll work again, at least not for a long time, and then only in a very limited capacity.’

Carrie realised with a terrible pang of guilt that she should never have left Fred that morning, and reproached herself bitterly. She had been selfish, thinking only of herself, while Fred was ill. If she had been with him it might have been different. Well, she would never leave him again, she told herself. She would spend her time caring for him and nursing him back to health. He would need her much more than Joe Maitland would. Joe was a fit young man who could look after himself. He would be all right. Nothing was going to happen to him. Poor Fred was helpless though. He would need all the love and attention she had to offer. He wouldn’t have to work again, she would see to that. She would see to everything. It was the least she could do for him. He was a good man who deserved someone better, but she would make it up to him.

The pain and guilt weighed like a stone inside her and she suddenly dropped her head in her hands and cried helplessly.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As the fast car approached Tower Bridge Joe Maitland looked out of the window from the back seat at the small groups of people standing around on the pavements. No trams or buses were running and there was only an occasional horse cart to be seen. The driver swung the steering wheel over and sent the car speeding into Cable Street. Along the narrow turning the scene was the same, with groups of men standing together idly and no dock traffic anywhere.

The men sitting on either side of Joe did not speak. They had hardly said anything since knocking on his door and telling him that he must accompany them to the car. It had seemed pointless to object, considering the size of them, and in fact he felt some measure of relief that now the uncertainty which had been hanging over him was to be resolved once and for all. Behind the relief, however, fear was gnawing at him. The men he had upset were not like the wheelers and dealers he had come to know through his business. They were merciless and capable of anything towards those they saw as their enemies.

The car had left Cable Street and entered a narrow turning that looked very run-down. The man on Joe’s left leaned forward and whispered something to the chauffeur as the car pulled up outside a factory yard. Then he got out, holding the door open for Joe to follow. As the men grabbed his arms the young trader took a deep breath, trying to remain calm as they propelled him across the cobbled area and through an iron door to a flight of stairs. When they reached the second floor Joe was led into an office, sat down in a chair and told to wait. He looked around at the grimy walls and the shabby office furniture, his mind racing. Why had they brought him here? he wondered. If it was merely to do away with him it could have been done more easily in Bermondsey. Perhaps they wanted to force some information out of him beforehand. He must try to stay calm and let them see that he was holding a trump card. One thing was certain: if he played his hand wrong it was unlikely that he would ever see Bermondsey again.

One of the men from the car suddenly looked out of an inner office and beckoned Joe to come in. The room was well furnished, with a deep-pile carpet and gilt-framed paintings around the walls. The window behind the large oaken desk was hung with velvet curtains, pulled back to allow as much light as possible into the office, and to one side there was a large bookcase reaching almost to the ceiling. The man sitting behind the desk waved Joe into a chair in front of him and then motioned with his head for the other man to leave. Joe guessed him to be in his forties. He had long sideburns and dark hair brushed down sideways above his high forehead, and was smartly dressed in a dark suit, starched collar and spotted tie. It was his grey eyes which disturbed Joe. They were heavy-lidded and unblinking, and they looked cold, almost lifeless.

‘I’m glad you could come,’ the man said in a slightly mocking tone. ‘I hope you’ve not been too inconvenienced?’

‘I wasn’t very busy at the time,’ Joe said casually, forcing a smile.

His host nodded his head slightly. ‘My name is Martin Butterfield and I represent Eastern Enterprises. I understand you’ve been active in opposing our attempts to buy a certain property in Rotherhithe. Would that be right?’

Joe sat up in the chair and leaned forward, clasping his hands on the edge of the desk. ‘I don’t see why I should answer questions,’ he said icily.

‘Oh dear,’ Butterfield sighed. ‘I was hoping you’d agree to co-operate, Mr Maitland. It would make things so much easier.’

‘Well, I might do, if I knew what yer wanted,’ Joe replied, sitting back in his chair again.

Butterfield toyed with a silver paper-knife for a few seconds before looking up. ‘We know what you’ve been doing and the reasons behind it,’ he said quietly. ‘What we’d like to know is, how well did you know the late Ronald James?’

‘I got ter know ’im fairly well over a short period o’ time,’ Joe answered. ‘Why d’yer ask?’

The company solicitor pushed the paper-knife away from him and leaned back in his chair with his arms folded. ‘Let’s be frank with each other, Mr Maitland,’ he said. ‘We have reason to believe you know why James decided to do away with himself.’

Joe decided to play his card. ‘Yeah, I know,’ he replied, looking hard at his host. ‘Ronald James made the mistake o’ usin’ ’is ware’ouse ter store a contraband cargo an’ when your crowd used that knowledge as a lever ter force ’im inter doin’ yer biddin’ ’e realised ’e couldn’t live wiv it. The papers said it was suicide while ’e was unbalanced. I’d say it was murder, as good as.’

Butterfield smiled mirthlessly. ‘Rumours on the riverside are still rife, Maitland. I wouldn’t pay any attention to rumours, if I were you.’

‘No, not rumours. Fact,’ Joe replied. ‘James told me ’imself, in a letter ’e wrote ter me jus’ before ’e killed ’imself. It was all there. Names, places, even the agent who arranged the cargo storage. It made interestin’ readin’, an’ my solicitor thought so too. ’E’s mindin’ the letter, by the way. It’s my little piece of insurance.’

Martin Butterfield pulled the paper-knife towards him again and spun it on the polished desk surface. ‘We expected that James might have written to you,’ he said quietly. ‘He indicated as much when he left our meeting early on Christmas Eve to go to his wharf. He’d already decided his own fate, Mr Maitland. He was merely worried about yours, for his own sentimental reasons. As it happens I don’t think that letter is as valuable as you seem to believe. The cargo has long gone, and any illegal goods wouldn’t be entered on the manifest as you can imagine. There would be no record. Let’s go a bit further. Names and places, you say?
I
say they were innocent company meetings attended by members of Eastern Enterprises, which is a bona fide company. We can supply minutes to cover all of our meetings.’

‘Can yer supply minutes fer the meetin’ at the Bargee public ’ouse wiv James an’ Gerry Macedo?’ Joe asked in a low voice.

For a brief moment Butterfield lost a little of his composure. ‘I know of no such meeting,’ he said quickly.

‘Well, I can assure yer there was such a meetin’,’ Joe told him. ‘It was described at length in the letter I got from James, ’cos it was at that meetin’ that Gerry Macedo left him wiv no option but ter join yer company in gettin’ that Rovver’ithe deal through.’

‘Hearsay,’ Butterfield declared. ‘Macedo would not discuss business of any sort other than in privacy. There’d be no witnesses to the meeting.’

‘Oh, but there was,’ Joe replied, smiling. ‘Somebody who Macedo wasn’t aware of because ’e was sittin’ the ovver side o’ the bar.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

Joe leaned back in his chair. ‘James was a very shrewd man who made one big error,’ he went on. ‘At the end o’ the day it cost ’im ’is life. ’E knew ’e was compromised badly an’ ’e’d ’ave ter do as ’e was told, but ’e wanted a witness who could be relied upon should ’e ever feel that ’is life was in danger once ’e was no longer useful. It was ’is insurance, the same as it’s mine now. I’ve instructed my solicitor ter pass that letter on ter the police should anyfing ’appen ter me. I’ve also got the name an’ location o’ the witness. This man is as deaf as a post, but ’e’s got a talent. ’E can lip read. I bet ’e could give a good demonstration in court.’