The Girl With No Name (55 page)

Outside the Black Bull, Mikey’s tame policeman and his other henchmen got to their feet, red-faced and angry. The crowd that had gathered began to disperse, encouraged by PC Parker’s angry warnings that ‘The excitement’s over! There ain’t nothing to see here, so move on, before I arrest you for loitering and causing a public nuisance.’

When the crowd had melted away, they all went into the pub and Mikey explained the second part of his plan.

Once Harry was clear of the market and was sure he had lost his pursuers, he made his way back to Shoreditch. He thought Mikey probably knew where he lived, down at the docks, but thought his hide-out in Kemble Street would be safe enough for the time being. He took no risks, however, taking several buses and two Tubes before he was certain that no one was following him. He reached Kemble Street in the middle of the afternoon. Going down into the cellar, he pulled the door closed behind him, lit the Tilley and considered what to do next. Clearly Mikey was behind his ‘arrest’. It was one of his tarts who’d started the whole thing off, his henchmen who’d joined the fray. Harry knew he was lucky to have made his escape.

He took the bracelet out of his trouser pocket and slipped it in with his cash in the hidden, inner pocket. Once again he’d proved the wisdom of never having anything valuable in the pockets of his jacket. That was all he’d lost, his jacket. He’d have to steer clear of Petticoat Lane from now on, but there were other markets in other areas of London which were not the province of Mikey Sharp.

He looked along the rows of tins, the bottles of whisky and the box of silk stockings he’d acquired from a bloke in a pub. He had enough here to keep him going for some time. He fed his contacts a little at a time... keeping the prices high. He had a new source of spirits, not just whisky. He’d been in touch with Dickett again and paid a little over the odds for part of a consignment due to go to Mikey. Not the most sensible thing to do, he now realised, but the offer was too good to turn down and he was establishing his own ring of customers. He needed to keep the supplies coming.

Provided he didn’t tread on Mikey’s toes again, he reckoned he’d be safe enough. He’d move to another patch. In the meantime, he still had the bracelet, which he would offer elsewhere, even if it meant a cut in the expected price.

He’d go to Livingston Road later as planned. In the meantime he might as well have an hour’s kip, then he’d go down the public baths and get himself cleaned up, ready to take Lisa dancing. He flopped down on to the mattress and was almost instantly asleep.

He awoke with a jolt an hour later as someone grabbed him and he was dragged to his feet. Despite a struggle, his arms and legs were securely tied and he was pushed down into one of the old armchairs. The cellar was full of men. Mikey’s men. Jumbo, holding a wicked-looking knife, stood guard over him, while Charlie, Ginger and PC Parker inspected the items ranged along the shelf.

‘Definitely black market stuff, wouldn’t you say, constable?’ Ginger was asking with mock formality.

‘Definitely,’ agreed the policeman.

Some of the tins and some bottles of beer were left on the shelf, and the rest Ginger and Charlie packed into boxes they had brought with them.

‘What about ’im?’ Charlie jerked his head at Harry.

‘We check his clothes,’ said Ginger, ‘and if we think he’s hiding anyfink else, we’ll ask ’im, ever so politely, where it is.’

Once they had finished with the black market goods, they turned their attention to Harry. ‘Stand ’im up, Jumbo,’ Ginger said. Jumbo pulled Harry to his feet and held him firmly while Ginger patted him down.

‘Something in his pockets,’ Ginger said. ‘Get his trousers off.’ Charlie reached down and cut the ropes round Harry’s legs.

Harry struggled, but with his arms still tied and Jumbo holding him in a bear hug from behind, there was little he could do. His trousers were stripped from his legs and the contents of his pockets tipped out on to the table.

‘Well, well, what have we ’ere?’ Ginger had discovered the inner pocket and pulled out Harry’s roll of notes and the gold bracelet.

‘Mikey’ll be pleased to see this,’ Ginger said. ‘Makes all this effort worthwhile.’

He stuffed the money into his own pocket, but replaced the bracelet in Harry’s. ‘Tie ’is legs again and then turn this place over, see if there’s anyfink else.’

Harry could only watch helplessly as they searched the cellar, but he knew there was nothing else for them to find. They’d already got everything of value that he owned.

‘Anyfink else, Jew-boy?’ Ginger demanded. Harry shook his head.

‘Right,’ said Ginger, convinced Harry was telling the truth. ‘Soon as it’s dark we’ll get this lot moved to the Bull.’ He turned to PC Parker. ‘Following a tip-off, you came here and found this man, camping out in the cellar of a burnt-out what don’t belong to ’im, right?’

‘Right,’ agreed PC Parker.

‘Naturally, you arrested him. The evidence of his black-marketeering is all these tins on the shelf.’

Harry noticed the whisky and the silk stockings had gone. They only needed enough evidence to arrest him. The rest would go to Mikey.

‘Better bring another cop with you,’ Ginger advised. ‘Mikey’ll pay. Make sure you make it legal and you make it stick. Mikey don’t want to see him again, he wants him banged up and the key thrown away.’

‘Yeah, no problem. I got a mate who’ll go along with this. Look good on our records to have caught a black-marketeer.’

They pulled his trousers back on, retied his legs, and Harry spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening sitting in the chair in the cellar with Jumbo sitting opposite him, digging the dirt out from under his nails with the point of his knife. Harry looked at the knife. It reminded him of Rolf’s and he shuddered. Jumbo looked across at him and gave him a gap-toothed grin.

‘You’re going down for a long time,’ he remarked. ‘Shouldn’t play with the big boys till you’re a big boy yourself.’

As darkness closed in outside, Ginger and Charlie returned and quietly manoeuvred the boxes of contraband up the steps and out into a waiting van.

‘Parker’ll be back in a bit,’ Ginger told Jumbo. ‘He’ll take ’im away and then you can go ’ome. Keep your eye on ’im though. He’s slippery as an eel. Keep ’im tied up and your knife ’andy.’

It was only another hour or so before Harry heard voices upstairs in the kitchen. He looked across at Jumbo. The man was dozing in the opposite chair, but the knife was by his side. Harry looked at it, so near and yet so far. His wrists were bound so tightly that his hands had gone numb and he couldn’t move his arms at all. He wondered about trying to kick out at Jumbo with his bound legs, but it would serve no purpose. All he’d get was a faceful of knuckles.

The door at the top of the steps opened and two uniformed policemen came down.

‘My tip-off was right, Davidson,’ Parker said loudly as they surveyed the cellar. ‘Looks like we got a cellar-rat here, and look at them tins. That has to be black market stuff.’

‘Looks like it,’ Davidson agreed.

Parker walked across to Harry, totally ignoring Jumbo in the opposite chair. ‘Heinrich Schwarz, also known as Harry Black, I’m arresting you on suspicion of dealing in black market goods. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and given in evidence against you.’

He pulled Harry to his feet and, reaching for Jumbo’s knife, cut the rope round his wrists, immediately replacing it with a pair of handcuffs.

‘Resisting arrest, are we?’ he snarled and pounded his fist into Harry’s face. ‘Owed you that,’ he said. Harry fell back into the chair, his head singing, blood spurting from his nose. Parker then cut the rope around Harry’s legs and between them, the two cops pushed him up the steps and out into the street. It was totally dark. No one saw them emerge from the house, no one saw Harry being pushed into a waiting police car, no one saw Jumbo depositing a box of tinned food into its boot. As he was driven to a police station some distance away, Harry wondered at them using a car, taking him so far.

Parker’s station, he thought gloomily. Parker’s station and Mikey’s petrol.

Once again Harry found himself in a police cell for the weekend and on Monday morning he appeared in the police court. The box of tins was produced as evidence of what the police had found in the cellar. Charges of assaulting a policeman, resisting arrest, and theft of a valuable gold bracelet were also brought. He was sent down. Heinrich Schwarz, aka Harry Black, was once again in the clutches of the law. He simply disappeared into the system. PC Parker had earned his pay; he shared Mikey’s bonus with PC Davidson and they had commendations on their records.

Jumbo, who was apparently entirely invisible during the arrest, had disappeared into the night. He was at Mikey’s side in the morning and none of them gave Harry Black another thought.

Charlotte waited all Saturday evening, but Harry didn’t come.

‘Why don’t you go to Kemble Street again?’ Caroline suggested on Sunday morning. ‘See if there’s anyone who knows where the Federmans have gone. One of the neighbours perhaps? It’s Sunday, so there should be people around, perhaps people who’re usually at work.’

Caroline thought it would give Charlotte something else to think about after the disappointment of the previous evening. She knew how much Charlotte had been looking forward to seeing Harry again, but when the little blighter hadn’t turned up, with no warning and no explanation, Caroline could cheerfully have throttled him. Seven o’clock had come and gone. Charlotte waited in the children’s sitting room, reading to some of the younger ones, one ear listening for the expected ring at the door, but it never came. By eight o’clock most of the children had gone to bed. Only a few older girls were still up, listening to the wireless in the sitting room as they helped with the mending. Charlotte helped too, but her mind wasn’t on her work.

Caroline had come into the room to send the children to bed and found Charlotte sitting miserably, holding a half-mended sock and staring into space.

‘He hasn’t come, Miss Morrison,’ she said. ‘Harry hasn’t come. He said we’d go dancing.’

Charlotte was desolate and Caroline furious. So the next morning she made her suggestion.

Charlotte hadn’t wanted to bother, but urged by Caroline, she allowed herself to be persuaded. As she sat on the bus to Shoreditch, she was thinking more about finding Harry rather than finding the Federmans. She wondered, as she had for much of the night, why he hadn’t come as promised, but she was no nearer an answer.

I might find him in Kemble Street, she thought with a tiny flicker of hope. It’s where he was before. Maybe he’ll be there again.

When she got off the bus and walked the last few hundred yards, she searched the faces of the people she passed, but there was no sign of Harry. She turned into Kemble Street, walking slowly passed the burned-out houses until she came to number sixty-five. Standing in the doorway, she called his name, but there was no answer. She went inside and on reaching the kitchen, she saw at once that the door to the cellar was open, leaning at a drunken angle against the wall. She edged her way across the room and peered down the cellar steps. She could see very little, but thinking that Harry might be down there, hurt? Ill? She went down a couple of steps and called his name again.

‘Harry? Harry, are you there? It’s me, Lisa.’

There was no reply from the darkness of the cellar and the silence of the house settled on her. Her fear of that cellar flooded through her and, suddenly losing her nerve, she ran back up the steps, scurrying through the kitchen and out into the sunlit street. Pale, her breath catching in her throat, she stood on the pavement, trying to quell her fear.

‘I say, are you all right?’

Charlotte turned to find a woman who looked vaguely familiar, crossing the street towards her. Still struggling for breath, Charlotte couldn’t answer.

‘You look awfully queer, dear. Is anything wrong?’

‘No.’ Charlotte managed to force the word out. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘What was you doing in that house?’ asked the woman. ‘You shouldn’t go into derelicts, you know, they ain’t safe.’

‘I...’ Charlotte hesitated, ‘I was looking for someone.’

‘Who was you looking for?’ asked the woman. ‘The Federmans don’t live there no more.’

‘The Federmans!’ Charlotte focused on the woman properly for the first time. ‘Do you know the Federmans?’

‘I should do, they was my neighbours. I’m Shirley Newman. I used to live opposite.’ She peered at Charlotte. ‘Don’t I know you?’

‘Mrs Newman whose husband was a sailor?’

‘That’s me. Just back looking at the old house. We’re going to try and have it repaired.’ She looked at Charlotte again. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Charlotte Smith.’

‘Was it Mr and Mrs Federman you was looking for?’ Shirley asked.

‘No,’ said Charlotte, for a moment thinking still of Harry. ‘I mean, yes it was.’

‘They’re long gone,’ Shirley said. ‘Moved away more ’an eighteen months ago.’

Charlotte felt a surge of excitement. ‘D’you know where they’ve gone?’ she asked. ‘Where they are now, I mean?’ All thoughts of Harry fled as she realised Mrs Newman might be able to tell her where to find the Federmans.

‘Yes, I know where they are, but who’s asking?’

‘Lisa. Lisa Becker. I used to live with them.’

‘Thought you said your name was Charlotte something.’ Shirley looked at her suspiciously.

‘It is now; it wasn’t.’

‘So you’re Lisa Becker, the German girl what was killed in the Blitz?’

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Charlotte.

‘They think you’re dead,’ Shirley said accusingly. ‘Where’ve you been all this time?’

‘I lost my memory,’ Charlotte said, ‘but never mind that now. I came here to try and find them, to tell them I’m safe, but I don’t know where they are. Tell me where they are, please tell me.’

Shirley Newman looked at the girl standing in front of her. She hadn’t known Lisa properly when she’d been living with the Federmans. She hadn’t liked the idea of living near a German; like so many when war broke out she’d felt an immediate antipathy to anyone from Germany, refugee or not. But she’d seen Lisa about and she’d lost her own home in that first raid of the Blitz, the night when Lisa had gone missing. She remembered Naomi’s distress as she’d searched the hospitals and rescue centres, and now here was this Charlotte, claiming to be the missing girl, Lisa. She could be, Shirley supposed, but standing in front of her ruined home, she had even less reason to like Germans now and didn’t really care.