After Hours (30 page)

‘How's that?' Duke picked him up sharply.

‘Cleaning out the room, removing traces of the victim's blood.' The policeman reverted to official jargon as he saw Duke's colour rise.

‘That ain't got nothing to do with removing the evidence,' he protested. ‘I told him to do that.' His knuckles gripped the arms of the chair. ‘That was me, see. I sent him down here for a scrubbing-brush and bucket to tidy the place up a bit. Rob only did it 'cos I told him to.' A man's every deed could backfire, he realized.

Grigg tapped a loud full stop with his pencil. He flipped his notebook closed and rose to go. ‘I see,' he said. It was evident he suspected another cover-up. The family was running round in circles to protect what looked like the black sheep, Robert. He bid the
old man and Annie a curt goodbye and went straight back to Union Street to consult with his sergeant.

‘Right!' Annie said, as soon as she'd shut the front door on him. ‘That bleeding does it! Who's he think he is, bleeding Sherlock Holmes?'

Duke wheezed and coughed. ‘Ain't that just our luck these days? To have some fresh young bobby on the case.' He shook his head, going over what he'd let drop, to see how he might possibly have further incriminated Rob.

‘You wait here,' Annie ordered. She went for her hat and coat, then called back in, ‘Keep yourself warm, Duke. I'll send Katie to check on you.'

‘Where are you off to?'

‘To find Rob and sort this lot out once and for all!'

Annie ran through the fog up Duke Street, spotted Rob's parked taxicab and dragged him from his lunch-time break at Henshaws' eating house.

‘Hold your horses, Annie, where are we off to?' He managed to gobble his meat pie and swallow a mouthful of tea. Then he followed her small, determined figure out on to the street.

‘In the car, Rob. Hop in. We're gonna take a drive, you and me.' She ran to the passenger door and sat in the seat, willing him to hurry and start up the engine.

It fired, he climbed in and leaned forward to wipe the windscreen. Outside, he could see about ten or fifteen yards ahead. ‘Where to?'

‘Up the river, under the arches, wherever them dossers hang around on a day like this.'

He looked quizzically at her. ‘What's this about?'

‘Wiggin. We're gonna find who done him in.'

‘We are?' Rob pulled away from the kerb, half-amused, half-anxious. ‘We ain't gonna do nothing stupid, are we, Annie?'

‘Just what the coppers ain't been able to do all these past weeks,' she told him. ‘What do you reckon, Rob? Them old tramps, they ain't got nowhere else to go. They hang around the same old places,
day in, day out. One of them must have seen or heard something the night Wiggin ended up in the water.'

Rob had to go along with it. There was no stopping Annie in this mood. ‘Aye, aye, cap 'n,' he said.

‘It's getting your pa down.' Annie sat bolt upright as they drove along. ‘We still got Wiggin slung round our necks like a bleeding albatross. We gotta get rid of him and give Duke a chance to pick up, otherwise I don't think he can last the winter.' Her voice choked and died, as Rob steered, almost blind, through the swirling fog.

At last, leaving the cab parked under a dripping tree, the two of them walked along the riverside to the sound of foghorns and the muffled chugging of steamboats heading upriver. Annie made Rob accost any bundled-up, stumbling shape who chanced to veer towards them from the wide stone steps leading to the wharves, or sitting silent on wet benches, waiting for the day to end. But her heart sank at each vacant gaze or hostile shove. Rob couldn't even get the tramps to stop and listen.

When they came to Southwark Bridge, they descended to the river bank and approached the stone arches where they knew the men and women slept out in all weathers. Sure enough, the shelter was crowded with misshapen figures, padded with newspaper and wrapped around with blankets, sacking tied around their ankles, half-drunk or crazy, starving, hostile as Rob and Annie went into their midst.

A woman's voice swore at them. Three men huddled over the embers of a fire made from driftwood and foul-smelling refuse. Another man loomed up, hand outstretched and shaking with palsy. Rob refused him and he went off cursing.

‘This way.' Rob steered Annie towards the three old tramps crouching over the dying fire.

They were deep in conversation, discussing the means to get themselves a bed for the night.

‘I won't stand another night of this,' the first man said. ‘I'll go and smash a window, a big one, and get myself run in for a few days. Then I'll have a place to kip, and some grub.'

The two others mumbled on. ‘Soaked to the skin,' one complained,
his back to Rob and Annie. ‘I been out three nights. One more night of this and they'll have to come along and pick me up dead.' He blew on his freezing hands.

The third, a taller, stronger-looking man than his companions, caught sight of their visitors. He turned on Rob fiercely. ‘Don't never grow old, lad.'

Rob took a step back and put out an arm to protect his stepmother.

‘Die when you're young,' the man went on. ‘This is what you get for being old.' He cast a hand towards the huddled, starving shapes. ‘We wish we was dead. It can't come too quick.'

In spite of everything, Annie's heart went out to him. He was sober, at least, and with the tough, leathery skin of a seafarer, his eyes wrinkled as if permanently staring across sunlight on the sea. ‘It ain't that bad, surely,' she said quietly, still hanging on to Rob's arm for safety. To one side, the sluggish brown water slid by. Overhead, the dirty arch of the mighty bridge rose in the mist.

‘Worse.' He shook his head. ‘Worn out, I am, and I worked all my life. I ain't never taken charity, but I'm worn out now and on the scrapheap.'

He turned to wander off, but Annie stepped to one side of the fire and followed him, Rob close behind. ‘How would you like to earn a bed for the night?' she said, direct as ever. ‘Not charity, mind.'

‘And pigs might fly.' He shuffled on.

Annie took a florin from her bag. ‘There's this for you if you can help us.'

The tramp seized the money and bit at its edge. Rob made as if to snatch it back before he pocketed it without giving them what they wanted in return, but Annie restrained him.

‘You got your money, now you gotta help us,' she ordered.

He returned a brief nod.

‘Right, did you ever come across a man by the name of Wiggin?' Annie demanded. ‘William Wiggin. Smaller than you, thinner, about the same age. Pretty far gone with drink.'

The tramp scratched at his wrinkled, bearded race. He sniffed,
caught the phlegm in his throat, spat, then turned to go. ‘He ain't here. The coppers already came poking round after him.'

‘But you know him?' Annie stepped in quick. ‘We know he ain't here. He died, didn't he?'

‘Better off dead,' the tramp insisted. ‘Yes, I knew a man called Wiggin. Him and me sailed together on more than one crossing. He ended up on the scrapheap, just like me. Only, he found a way out, lucky beggar.'

‘How did he die?' Annie asked. ‘Did you see?'

This time, Rob had to restrain Annie before she scared off the tramp with her eagerness.

‘How?' The old man searched his memory, as unclear as these shapes huddled all around. ‘How did old Wiggin die?' he muttered aside to his two companions, still clinging to the last red glow of their fire.

‘Bled to death,' came the muffled answer. ‘Like a stuck pig.'

The picture came back. ‘That's it, Wiggin bled to death.'

‘How?'

‘He turned up here one night a few weeks back. Came staggering down them steps, blood everywhere. Someone tried to grab the glass in his hand, but not before he gave himself one good cut, right here.' The man pointed to his own chest, then made a stabbing motion.

Annie shuddered and clung to Rob. ‘He stabbed himself?' she echoed. ‘He done it to himself?'

The tramp nodded. ‘He never knew what he was doing, just slashing away with the broken end of the bottle, catching himself here and here, like I said. He never felt nothing, mind, he was too far gone.'

The picture pierced Annie's mind. She put her head into her hands.

‘Better off dead,' the tramp insisted. ‘That's the one thing he did know. Drunk himself into oblivion, then done himself in with a broken bottle. You should've seen the look on his face when he came down them steps. You could see he was glad. Blood everywhere, and staggering about, and some idiot has to go and try to tear the
bottle out of his hand, but he's done enough. He takes his last breath. We stand and watch him keel over the edge. There's a splash. They chuck the bottle in after him. That's it.'

Rob held an arm around. Annie's shoulders. ‘Why ain't you gone and told the coppers?'

The tramp shook his head. ‘They can find out for themselves, I say.' He looked straight at Rob, as if he knew he would understand.

It cost them a couple of half-crown pieces, and took a deal of cajoling to get the tramp into the taxi and up to Union Street. He'd never set foot inside a police station in the whole of his life, he insisted. But when Annie outlined the situation, what was left of his better nature triumphed. He considered it was a fair bargain; a few shillings for a week's kip in a seaman's hostel in return for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

They buried the mystery surrounding Wiggin's death at last, thanks to Annie. He'd taken his own life and put an end to his misery in the only way he knew. Rob described how Annie had gone down on to the wharf like a little grey pigeon, chest out, shoulders back, narrow boots pit-pattering down the steps, and God help anyone who stood in her way. The dossers had parted for her like the Red Sea. ‘I was scared stiff myself, believe me.' Rob held Amy's hand, as they stood side by side in Annie's kitchen, telling Duke, Ernie, Hettie and Frances the full story. ‘But I'm off the hook, thanks to Annie.'

Duke growled and smiled. He got up unsteadily from his chair. ‘You come up trumps, like always.' He put a fond arm around her shoulder. ‘But I don't want you going off no more, see. I was worried sick till you got back.'

Annie tutted. ‘It weren't as bad as Rob makes out.' She smiled up at Duke, pleased to see him out of his chair and looking happy.

‘Ten times worse,' Rob insisted. ‘I thought I'd landed in hell, I can tell you. Them miserable blighters ain't got nowhere to go, asleep on their feet in that horrible fog; women with babes in arms . . .' Suddenly he stopped and turned to Amy. ‘Bleeding cheerful charlie, ain't I?'

She squeezed his waist. ‘Tell them now,' she whispered. ‘Give them our bit of good news to keep them happy.'

‘Tell us what?' Annie came up close and studied their secretive faces. Behind her, Duke stood with his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket, looking shrewdly at Rob.

Amy had taken Rob by surprise, as ever. He'd planned to share their news with his pa over a quiet drink, not surrounded by a gang of women who would go and spread it up and down the street. But he couldn't back out. He felt his face redden, began to fiddle with his cuffs, cleared his throat. ‘Amy and me is gonna get married,' he said in a flood of embarrassment.

Annie's mouth fell open, then snapped shut. ‘About bleeding time,' she said at last.

Duke came forward, wheezing, shaking his head, laughing and saying how glad he was. Frances hugged Ernie. Hettie squeezed Amy. There were smiles all round.

‘You mean to say, you don't mind?' Amy was overwhelmed. She thought that, like her, they wouldn't see her as a good match for Rob. Their warmth touched her to the core.

‘A wedding!' Even Frances looked genuinely pleased. ‘When? When's the big day?' It seemed the news of Rob being in the clear and about to be married had lilted years off her.

‘We ain't settled that yet, have we?' Details began to swamp Rob. He hung on to Amy's hand, squeezing it hard.

‘Soon,' Amy promised. ‘Before Christmas, I hope. We still gotta tell Ma and Pa and make the arrangements. Who's gonna be your best man, Rob?' She looked up at him, rolling her eyes in Ernie's direction.

Rob stepped forward. ‘Ern, I want you as best man,' he said awkwardly, with none of his usual slick confidence. ‘You gotta be there to help me through this.'

Ernie grinned and nodded. ‘Best man!' he said, shaking Rob's hand, smiling at his pa and Annie.

Hettie came up to join in the laughter. ‘Me and Jess will make your wedding outfit,' she said to Amy.

‘Oh no!' Amy wouldn't dream of it. ‘It ain't gonna be nothing posh.'

But Hettie gently insisted. ‘Don't go and spoil things. If Jess and me can't make the outfit, how are we gonna feel, watching you go up the aisle in someone else's dress?'

‘In that case.' Amy hesitated, Hettie cajoled, Amy accepted. ‘A dress made specially!' Her face shone. She threw her arms around Rob. ‘Pinch me and tell me I ain't dreaming,' she pleaded.

‘You ain't.' He pinched her waist. ‘And if I don't bleeding well get back to work, we ain't gonna have nothing to live on once we're hitched.' He hugged her, took his trilby hat from the table and went off whistling. Outside, the fog was thick as ever, and the street-lamps were just being lit. ‘Blimey,' he said to himself, turning up his coat collar. ‘Look what you just gone and did, you and your big mouth.'

Meanwhile, Amy couldn't wait to release the news to the waiting world. She dashed up the court, cock-a-hoop, to her own house. ‘Ma, Rob and me's getting married,' she crowed. For once, Dolly was speechless.

. . . ‘Me and Amy's getting hitched,' Rob told Walter glumly when the latter asked him what was the matter.

‘Blimey.' Walter sat down at the desk. ‘That's a bit sudden, ain't it?' . . .