‘Bill loved kids,’ Alison said, looking down at the river below. ‘He wouldn’t have been happy without them. I may be wicked to think it, but I had a feeling he expected something to happen to him if there was a war, and he wanted to be able to leave something behind. He wanted children to carry his name on. I’m sure in my mind he felt that way, although he didn’t ever mention it.’
‘I don’t fink you’re wicked ter ’ave them thoughts locked away inside yer. I fink yer stupid ter punish yerself. It wasn’t ter be. If yer’d ’ave said yer’d marry ’im it still wouldn’t ’ave prevented the accident, would it?’
‘I know,’ Alison replied, ‘but it doesn’t stop me asking myself the same question. Could I love a man enough to give up everything for him? Have I got that much love to offer? I feel I’d be trapped inside a marriage.’
‘Only yer know that,’ Danny said quietly. ‘Yer said a little while ago that the word “love” comes easy ter me. I tell yer this. Maybe I can say it easy, but it’s not an easy feelin’. It’s a bloody ’ard feelin’. It grips at me inside. It’s painful, an’ it makes me feel terrible when I’m not wiv yer. It makes me want ter jump up an’ shout me bleedin’ ’ead orf one minute an’ cry me eyes out the next. No, Alison, it ain’t an easy feelin’.’
Alison had to smile through her sadness at the way Danny expressed himself. His flippant nature had intrigued her in the beginning, yet there was another side of him she was fast discovering. He seemed to have an intensity that he tried to cover up, but now his words revealed his strength of feeling. Her body suddenly ached for his. She wanted to know his love before she left that evening, and at that moment she also wanted his understanding desperately. He must give her the space she needed to adjust to a new relationship. She had tried to make him understand, to warn him not to expect too much, and now it was up to him.
The sun had passed its zenith and the brow of the hill was becoming less private as people arrived and children ran up to the bench next to where the young couple sat.
‘Let’s walk a while, Danny,’ Alison said.
His face brightened. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘let’s go down ter the pier. There used ter be a nice coffee ’ouse there. We can get a drink.’
They left the hill–top view behind them and walked quickly down the grassy slope. In a few minutes they had reached the gate and crossed through into the busy road. They walked on past ancient–looking shops that displayed tattered books and faded paintings of ships in full sail. They saw the high–pillared Church of St Alphege ahead and when they reached the corner they turned down towards the pier. The little coffee house was still there, and soon they were seated comfortably in the shaded interior. An elderly lady came over and Danny ordered tea and cakes. The only other customer was a harassed mother who was trying hard to contain her young daughter. Cream oozed from a cake that the child held in her small hands, dripping onto the checked tablecloth and dribbling from her chin. Her mother smiled lamely at Danny and Alison as she attempted to clean up the mess while the elderly proprietor watched sternly from over her half–rimmed glasses. Soon hot tea in blue china cups and two large cream cakes were placed on the table beside the young couple.
Alison watched as Danny got into difficulty with his cake; he reminded her of a child in some ways. He was uncomplicated and straightforward, and his self–conscious grin pulled at her heart. There in the quiet, old–fashioned coffee house Alison felt she was being unavoidably drawn into a situation she had fought against. Why had she agreed to see him again? It would have been so easy to have said no in her letter to him, but she had been strangely attracted to the young patient and the chance of meeting him again had excited her. It was also an opportunity to test her emotions once more in the safe confines of a meeting that could only be brief. Even if their affair were passionate, it would certainly be short–lived. Time would not permit, nor would she. Now, as she watched Danny blowing on his tea, she felt ashamed. She wanted him badly but she could not fully trust herself, and yet she was using him to test her own emotional strength, and he was going to get hurt in the process. She felt a sudden panic and wanted to rush from the shop. She might experience love again, but in time she would have to walk away. What of him? Her thoughts tumbled around inside her head. Maybe she was being too presumptuous, he might merely be making a play to seduce her. He was young and good–looking, why should she assume he was in love with her? Because he had told her so? She realised it was getting more and more difficult to remain detached, a net seemed to be closing around her. Maybe it would be better to swim with the tide and allow events to bring her closer to a clear understanding of herself. That was the answer, she decided, and she felt an inner calm replacing her feelings of panic.
Out in the street the sun was dipping down behind the rooftops as they walked slowly to the tram stop. Danny had asked if he could escort her to Paddington Station that evening and she had accepted his offer gratefully. Now it was time to get back to the Morgans, to pack and to say goodbye to her hosts. As they waited for the tram, Alison couldn’t help but smile to herself–she had been so preoccupied with her thoughts of an affair, of passionate love and heart–rending decisions, but in reality there had been little time and no opportunity. Soon she would be speeding towards her home town, and later there would be more agonising, more decisions to be made, she would be on her own again. Parted from Danny and back with her family, she would have time to think, to examine her feelings and to question herself again, and perhaps she would be able to discover some peace.
Danny looked along Greenwich Road. He could see the approaching tram away in the distance. His hand was clasped around the key that Johnny Ross had given him but he knew in his mind that he would not take Alison to the flat. It was too contrived. He realised that suggesting it might make Alison feel cheap and degraded. Maybe he was getting soft, maybe he was losing his nerve, and his confidence. Maybe Alison’s disclosures had thrown him. In his heart he knew that such vanity was out of place. She had known love and was quite able to make up her own mind; it would not be a question of his taking advantage of a virgin. If she agreed to spend the night with him it would be her choice; she was an experienced woman and knew the consequences. Whichever way he looked at it he knew that the flat was out of the question. He was going to kick himself later, but that was the way it had to be.
The journey back to London Bridge was strained. Danny attempted light–hearted conversation but Alison was preoccupied. He sensed a disappointment and sadness, and his hand tightened on the key. He went over and over in his mind what Alison had told him of her affair with the pilot. His mixed feelings made him angry and regretful. He resented the pilot for having known her love, and he was upset because he could not bring himself to suggest that they use Johnny’s flat. Danny felt inadequate and unhappy, and he was glad when the tram arrived at London Bridge. The short walk to Southwark Street was carried out in awkward haste, both struggling to make conversation, and when they reached the Morgans’ dairy, Danny half expected Alison to change her mind about him going to the station with her. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Thanks for this afternoon, Danny, and thanks for being patient. Can we leave at eight? My train goes at ten past ten.’
‘I’ll be on the dot,’ he said, as she let herself into the dairy.
Detective Constable Stanley Stockbridge was in a foul mood. He had gone to Sullivan’s Wharf and stood scratching his head at the scene of the crime. ‘The bloody gate’s more than twelve feet ’igh. Whoever it was must ’ave bin part monkey.’
The uniformed policeman nodded. ‘Mr Sullivan’s up in the office on the first floor, Stan. ’E’s waitin’ fer yer.’
‘Well ’e can bloody well wait,’ Fat Stan growled. ‘I’ve gotta’ave a decko round first.’
Accompanied by the policeman he walked into the yard and saw the broken window. ‘When the fingerprint Johnny gets ’ere I want ’im ter go over that door ’andle.’
The police constable had already taken a look round the yard. ‘Yer won’t find anyfink there, Stan. There’s grease all over the ’andle. The mechanic’s bin in there ’alf a dozen times already.’
Fat Stan cursed. ‘Didn’t anybody try an’ stop the silly bleeder?’
‘Bit awkward really, Stan. The piss ’ole’s at the back o’ the office, an’ the mechanic told me ’e’s sufferin’ from a weak bladder.’
‘Christ Almighty! Ain’t there anuvver piss ’ole in this place?’
The constable merely pursed his lips and stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Fat Stan looked up at the rope. ‘That don’t tell us anyfing. The sort o’ rope yer can buy anywhere round ’ere. No keys bin found?’
The constable shook his head. ‘Must ’ave took ’em wiv ’em.’
Fat Stan took the constable’s arm and whispered in his ear. ‘This is your beat. D’yer know any o’ those who work ’ere?’
The constable’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. ‘D’yer suspect it was an inside job then, Stan?’
‘I ain’t made me mind up yet,’ Stan growled. ‘I’m off ter see this Mr Sullivan. You ’ang around, I’ll talk ter yer later.’
A tall matronly figure in thick spectacles gave the puffing detective a disapproving look as she led him into the inner office. Mr Sullivan did not bother to get up. ‘I’m Sullivan. And you are . . . ?’
‘Detective Constable Stockbridge, sir. We’d better ’ave a description of the lorry an’ its contents first orf.’
The wharf owner looked hard at the fat detective. ‘They’ve found my lorry,’ he said. ‘It was parked outside the West India Dock. Empty, I might add, except for two orientals. They were asleep in the cab. They weren’t involved, so I’m told.’
Fat Stan looked embarrassed. ‘I didn’t know they found yer lorry. The report must ’ave come in after I left. What about the load?’
Mr Sullivan pulled a sheet of paper towards him and scanned it while Fat Stan flipped open his notebook. The wharf owner scratched his ginger hair and moved his tortoiseshell spectacles up from the tip of his nose. ‘Here we are. One hundred and twenty cases of Argentine corned beef. Brand name “Swan”. Each case contained forty–eight sixteen–ounce tins. Then there were eighty cases of best Californian peaches, brand name “Sunrise”. Same packing: forty–eight sixteen–ounce.’
Fat Stan was struggling to get all the information onto his small notepad. ‘What about yer staff ? Any ex–cons workin’ fer yer?’
John Sullivan flushed indignantly. ‘I don’t employ that sort of person. All my staff have been with me for years. They are all honest, hardworking types.’
Fat Stan grunted. He was convinced that that particular species just did not exist. ‘Who’s responsible fer openin’ up in the mornin’?’
Mr Sullivan beckoned to his secretary through the open door. In the outer office Monica Adams was straining her ears in an effort to catch the conversation. This would make exciting gossip at her weekly women’s sewing circle. She got up quickly and adjusted her dress before tripping into the inner office. She smiled sweetly at her boss and gave the detective a cold look.
‘Will you ask Basil to come in, Monica?’ Mr Sullivan said peremptorily.
Miss Adams turned on her heel and Mr Sullivan beckoned the detective to a chair. ‘Basil will be down in the warehouse, Officer. You might as well take a seat. Basil Bromley has worked for me for over thirty years and he’s honest as the day is long. It was Basil who discovered the theft when he arrived to open up at seven–thirty.’
Fat Stan glanced through his notes. It wouldn’t be the first time an esteemed and trusted employee had turned crooked. Basil Bromley sounded like the sort of name they gave to music hall villains. A trusted servant with keys to the wharf. It wouldn’t be too difficult to set it up–a rope over the gate to allay suspicion, and Bob’s your uncle. Basil would have got himself a buyer for the swag easily. There were plenty of crooked shopkeepers around the neighbourhood willing to put some corned beef and tinned peaches under the counter, what with the food shortages. They’d most likely charge double the price. ‘Basil Bromley’ he mumbled to himself and looked up at Mr Sullivan, but the boss was studying an insurance claim form and ignored him. Fat Stan went back to his notes and pencilled a cross beside the trusted employee’s name. It would be a feather in his cap if he made a quick arrest. The new inspector was already reading the riot act out to his officers and Fat Stan did not relish the thought of pounding the beat. His feet wouldn’t stand it. Basil Bromley, he thought to himself, I arrest you for the theft of five tons of corned beef and canned peaches. It’s no good you struggling. I think we’ll have the handcuffs on. That’s all right, Mr Sullivan, no need to thank me. All in a day’s work. How did I get on to him? Well, it was intuition, Inspector, I’ve got a nose for a villain. I can smell ’em a mile off. Very few of ’em get by me . . .
The sound of voices brought Detective Constable Stanley Stockbridge back to reality. The outer office door opened and he heard Miss Adams’s strident tones. ‘Go right in, Basil, Mr Sullivan’s waiting for you.’
A white–haired, stooped old man walked painfully into the inner sanctum and leaned on the desk for support. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Sullivan. Those stairs seem to take it out of me lately,’ he said in a cracked voice.
Mr Sullivan smiled sympathetically and motioned Basil to a chair. Fat Stan looked at the pathetic figure whose suit seemed to be two sizes too large for his frail body while Basil peered at him over metal–rimmed spectacles and blinked owlishly. His sunken cheeks puffed in and out as he fought to regain his breath, and his bony hands made motions of washing. Fat Stan began to get the feeling that pounding the beat again was becoming a distinct possibility.
Chapter Seventeen
The tragedy in Dawson Street left a cloud of gloom that hung heavily over the small turning. There were no children playing in the street, and the few people who stood at their doors were talking in little more than whispers. While she lived, Crazy Bella had been ignored by most of Dawson Street’s folk, but in death everyone had some anecdote to tell about the unfortunate woman.