A Woman Unknown (34 page)

He decided to make the most of his last hours of officialdom. Sykes knew the City Centre beat, and the shifts. PC Millen would be pounding his beat now. The question was, where would he be? Sykes rode to the top end of town, up by the barracks, and along onto North Street. Slowly he rode through the streets of the town, keeping his eyes peeled for the portly constable. He finally caught up with Millen in City Square, under the watchful eye of the Black Prince.

Sykes hailed him. ‘Mr Millen! Jim Sykes.’

The men knew each other by sight and nods. Sykes told him to expect a summons. ‘I thought you’d like to be forewarned. Your report on the hat shop break-in has only just come through to the murder enquiry bunch. The sarge will be wanting a word with you.’

After two minutes with him, Sykes knew exactly how the slow progress of details about the hat shop break-in had come about.

Millen seethed. If CID chose to recruit smart Alecks who did not know that Estelle’s Hats for the Discerning Lady formed part of the Hotel Metropole premises, then that was their mistake, not his.

‘I’ll be blowed if I’ll take the can. If they’d had me in CID instead of doubling my beat and putting it down to economies, it would’ve been my business to make that connection straight off and I would’ve done it.’

‘The hat shop owner speaks highly of you. You’re a man who does his job.’

Informed sympathy came as a balm to PC Millen. The two men withdrew for a brief chat, into the Post Office doorway.

‘People on my beat appreciate me. Can’t say the same for the upper echelons.’

‘You don’t need to tell me,’ Sykes sighed. ‘My face didn’t fit in the force. I admire you for staying put.’

‘Well, I’ve a family to think of.’

They exchanged a few words about their children.

‘I’m just on as a special,’ Sykes said. ‘So I know what it’s like to be kept out of the scheme of things. You did your job beyond the call of duty, according to Miss Estelle.’

This gratified the constable. ‘She’s a nice lady. She’ll
speak up for me. Some young fellers out to make mischief, that’s what I thought. The connecting door into the hotel was bolted. Nothing had been taken, and no damage done.’

‘They’ll be asking you next who dosses down in which doorways.’

The constable tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ll make my own enquiries in that regard.’

‘Tell you what,’ Sykes said confidentially. ‘Let me in on your side. A beat your size, you can’t go chasing every vagrant who might have summat to say. If anything comes of it, you’ll hear first.’

‘Straight up?’

Sykes offered his hand.

The constable took his hand. ‘I dunno though. Chap I have in mind, would have nothing to do with attempted burglary, much less murder. These CID fellers, if they get hold of his name and chuck him in the cell under the Town Hall, it’d finish him.’

‘Likely he wasn’t there, but if he was, and he saw something, or someone, that’d go to your credit. It’s up to you where the information goes.’

Millen thought for a moment.

‘There’s two fellers doss down there sometimes. One of them’s in the infirmary on his last legs. The other, I only know a first name. Charley.’

‘Age? Appearance?’

‘About forty. Tries to keep hisself clean. Has a right bad cough, no lung power to speak of. He’s thin, about same height as you, Mr Sykes, but stooped. Doesn’t talk local. I think he’s from somewhere like Barnsley, bit of a twang.’

‘Where am I likely to find him?’

‘You could try the Salvation Army, or the hostel on St Peter’s Street.’

Sykes drew a blank at the hostel on St Peter’s Street. The warden there thought that a man answering Charley’s description slept under the arches, which was what Millen had said. Sykes walked there, and looked about, but it was too early for anyone to have settled down for the night.

As he walked through the doors of the Salvation Army Hostel, a rhyme they had recited as children chimed in his head.

Don’t think of that, Sykes said to himself. They’re a good bunch. Where else would these poor souls be spending the night? Sykes glanced into the communal room where men sat at long tables, each with a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread.

Sykes knew the warden, Eric Wrigg. It always paid dividends to be nice to people. He had once helped sort out an affray, coming to the aid of an Army trombonist. Ever since then, Eric had always been willing to pass the time of day.

‘After some soup, Jim?’

Sykes would not have minded a bowl of soup, but it didn’t do to take it from the mouths of them as had no wife to go home to.

‘No. I’m after talking to a chap called Charley.’

‘We’ve a couple by that name.’

‘About our height, thin, bad cough, stooped.’

Sykes could tell by Wrigg’s voice and look that he knew the man. ‘What is it you’re after him for?’

‘Just a bit of information. He’s not in any bother.’

‘Don’t suppose he would be. He’s a quiet chap.’

‘Is he here?’

It would be too good to be true.

‘Aye, he’s here, but he’s turned in for the night. Poor chap was jiggered.’

‘Only it’s right important I have a word.’

‘I’ll go up and ask. But if he says no, he says no.’

‘Right.’

Sykes waited. In the room where the soup had been dished up, a little half-hearted singing began.

Eric returned. ‘Look sharp. Speak to him before the others go up. He wouldn’t want to be spotted talking to the law.’

‘I’m not the law.’

‘You look like the law, you sound like the law, you’re the law. Upstairs, first on your left.’

Sykes half ran up the stairs, glad that he had been the one to find Charley. The CID men, especially the London lot, would scare him into silence. If they took against him because the enquiry was going nowhere fast, heaven help him.

It was a room with eight beds, and only one occupied. Charley was sitting up, a folded coat behind him. Sykes guessed he slept that way, so that he could breathe.

‘Charley, I’m Jim Sykes. Thanks for talking to me.’

‘I’ve said nowt.’

‘You sometimes go up by the Hotel Metropole.’

‘I’ve done nowt. I go there to flog matches.’

‘You haven’t been up there for a few days. Why’s that?’

‘No reason.’

‘Could it be you were there when someone broke into the hat shop?’

Charley said nothing.

‘I’m hoping you were there. There’s a reward for anyone that can help with enquiries and I’d like it to go to you.’

‘I’m no nark.’

‘The man who was there, it wasn’t to steal hats. A man was murdered.’

‘I heard about that.’

‘And you put two and two together didn’t you? Faster than the detectives did.’

Charley gave a hoarse laugh. ‘I might’ve made three with my two and two. I might’ve made seven.’

‘Why haven’t you been up there lately?’

‘It’s too far from here. I don’t allus have the puff to drag meself back here for a bed, so I’ve stopped away.’

‘On the nights you’re up that end and don’t have the puff, you kip down there, in the alley, or the shop doorway.’

‘What if I do?’

‘Come on, Charley, have a heart. Eric’s keeping the poor buggers downstairs singing till we’ve had our chat. No one will know, and if they did they wouldn’t blame you. Were you there that night? Did you see anyone?’

Charley started to cough. It took him a few minutes to recover and get his breath.

‘I were there all right. I heard him coming and dodged up t’ alley. I’ve a snout for trouble.’

‘Go on.’

‘He rode a motorbike. Wheeled it up, outa sight. He went into t’ doorway. Had summat with him, mebbe a crowbar. He forced shop door. That were it. I were off, out other end of t’ alley. It were too late to find a bed.’

The man started to wheeze. His breath came in short bursts. Sykes opened the window, to give him a little more air.

‘Did you get much of a look at him?’

Talking seemed too much for the man now. He shook his head and gave a weak but emphatic, ‘No.’

‘Pity.’

The breathing steadied a little. ‘Only that he were a big chap. His motorbike, it were a two-stroke Enfield.’

‘Are you sure of that?’

Charley nodded. It took a great effort for him to speak again. ‘I rode despatch on one.’

Sykes put his hand in his pocket. He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a half crown, his week’s spends.

‘You should be in the infirmary, old lad.’

The man gave something like a laugh. ‘You go there to die. I’m not ready yet.’

He began to cough. He turned red in the face as he tried to shift something that would not come.

Sykes said, ‘It’s not me who talked to you. It’s Constable Millen, and he’ll look out for you.’

Charley said, ‘No bugger talked to me. I’ve said nowt.’

Mr Duffield was at his desk in the newspaper library, giving instructions to a young clerk. When the clerk retreated behind distant shelves, I approached, wondering why he had asked me to call so urgently.

As usual, his manner was calm and unhurried. Knowing him well, I sensed his deep agitation. His nervousness betrayed itself in the tightness of his smile and the stiffness of his gait as he brought a chair for me.

We had not seen each other since the day we found Len Diamond’s body. I hoped there would be other, more social, occasions when we would meet, and soon, so as to overlay that dreadful shared experience.

Mr Duffield took a folder from his drawer. He explained that in the absence of near relations, he had taken on the task of advertising in the Australian newspapers for Leonard Diamond’s sister, and in papers here, in case other relatives may be traced.

‘What is going to happen about a funeral?’ I asked.

‘We’re waiting on the coroner. He has not yet ordered release of the body.’

The body. The words conjured up that dreadful image of the unfortunate Len.

We sat in silence for a moment.

Mr Duffield gave a slight gulp and there was reluctance in his voice. ‘I’d like your advice, Mrs Shackleton. It concerns Leonard Diamond’s effects.’ He glanced about, to make sure no one was listening, though the young clerk was at the far end of the library.

‘Do you mean the belongings in his lodgings?’

‘No. The police have taken charge there. This concerns work matters. The part-time chap, young Tom Ashworth, will be taking over Len’s work. Naturally, Tom wants a locker for his belongings. Because I have been here longest, I have become storage monitor, by default. Len had a basement locker so that seemed the obvious one for Tom. I have a duplicate key.’ Mr Duffield unlocked a large drawer on the bottom left of his desk. ‘I went to check that the locker was clear, and it was not. Take a look at what was in it. I’m not sure what to do.’

Mr Duffield reached into the big deep drawer. He brought out a hand-knitted scarf, winter gloves, and a brown paper carrier bag with neat twine handles. He placed the scarf and gloves to one side, and set the carrier bag on my side of the table. ‘It’s this.’ He parted the twine handles to reveal an unsealed envelope, containing several five-pound notes that looked, crisp, white and new. ‘I haven’t touched them, but I should say there is a hundred pounds here.’

‘Perhaps he did not trust banks.’

‘They look too neat. I used tweezers to check the numbers. They are sequential, so not savings, not five
pounds at a time into the piggy bank and then into the locker.’

There were also loose photographs, at least a dozen.

‘Do you have those tweezers to hand?’

He took a pair of tweezers from a cracked coronation mug that held pencils. ‘Here.’