Always in My Heart (44 page)

With the dog trotting at his heels, he swiftly crossed the road and melted into the shadows by the side door to the pub. He had a key, for Rosie had given it to him over a year ago so he could get in to change the barrels if she happened to be out. The key turned and he pushed the door open, wincing as it creaked on its dry hinges, and slid inside, the dog hard on his heels. The outside noises were muffled once the door was closed behind them, and Ron stood there for a moment, alert to any sound coming from upstairs. Then he moved into the bar.

The tables were cluttered with dirty glasses, the ash in the hearth hadn’t been cleared for days, there was a layer of dust on everything and the flagstones were sticky with spilled beer and squashed fag ends. He looked at the long oak bar which had been Rosie’s pride and joy, and almost wept at the sight of the deep scars and gouges that now marred it. The brass beer pumps hadn’t been polished in an age, the tankards were missing from the hooks, and the mirrors behind the optics and bottles were fly-spotted and smeared. Now both middle-aged barmaids had been replaced by a couple of tarts from London, it seemed the place was going to wrack and ruin.

He couldn’t bear to look and turned away. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered Harvey as he reached the top of the cellar steps. ‘Growl if you hear someone coming.’

Harvey sat alert in the doorway as Ron quickly went down the cellar steps. He knew where the false wall was, for he and Jim had been in partnership with the previous landlord, and had stored their contraband here from time to time when it got too dangerous to keep it at home. Rosie had provided the same favour on one rare occasion, but he’d never asked her again, for he couldn’t bear the thought of her getting into trouble.

He switched on the single light and made his way around the barrels and crates to the very back of the cellar, where the low-watt bulb barely cast any light. The sturdy wooden shelves fixed to the far wall were lined with cardboard boxes, dusty bottles, abandoned, rusting tools and tins, and piles of old newspapers.
This general clutter of several decades was covered in spiders’ webs and mouse droppings and looked undisturbed, but Ron knew that was all part of the camouflage, for everything on this particular part of the shelving had been nailed or stuck into place.

He reached between two empty oil cans and fumbled for the lever. Pulling it down, he heard a click and stepped back as the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. It was pitch-black in that secret hideaway, and smelled strongly of mice and damp. Ron turned on his powerful torch.

‘I thought so,’ he breathed in relief and satisfaction as he swung the torch-beam across the stacked cases of rum and whisky and the airtight drums which probably held thousands of packets of stolen cigarettes. Findlay had somehow discovered this hidey-hole and had put it to good use – but it would be his downfall.

He reached for a case of rum which was clearly marked ‘Property of Her Majesty’s Royal Naval Reserve’ and carried it quickly up the steps.

Harvey whined and wagged his tail, and Ron praised him and told him to keep watch as he hurried up the stairs to Rosie’s rooms. His rage with Findlay was stoked by the stink of cheap perfume that pervaded every corner, the stains on her carpet and the litter of overflowing ashtrays and empty bottles which was strewn over every flat surface. Rosie had taken such care to make this a homely, pretty place to relax in, and Findlay had turned it into a pigsty. It would break Rosie’s heart if she saw it.

However, this neglect and lack of cleaning served his purpose very well. He carried the case of rum over to the couch which stood beneath the diamond-paned window and pulled it forward enough so he could ram the box behind it. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the unwashed smell of the cushions, the grubby upholstery, and the tobacco stink in the curtains. How anyone could live like this, he couldn’t fathom.

He ran back down to the cellar and began to heave the cases of alcohol out of their hiding place, setting them behind the stacked crates so they wouldn’t immediately be seen by Findlay when he next came down here. Then he took several cartons of American cigarettes out of an airtight tub and hid them behind a stack of old magazines which had been used by the mice as a nest.

Slipping four cartons of cigarettes and three packs of tobacco into his coat pockets, he added a couple of bottles of rum and whisky and then pushed up the lever to close the door on the rest. He didn’t want the police finding this hiding place – it might come in useful at some point – but there was enough evidence down here to nail Findlay, and that was what mattered.

Ron had turned off the light and was halfway up the stone steps when he saw Harvey stiffen and heard the soft, warning growl deep in his throat. He tiptoed the rest of the way and laid his hand on the dog’s head to silence him. Someone was turning the key in the front door.

As Ron silently reached the side door and turned
the knob, he heard Findlay’s voice and the answering shriek of laughter of some woman. He heard the click of high heels on the flagstone floor as she crossed the bar – and he slid through into the alleyway, Harvey streaking like a shadow behind him.

Closing the door silently on yet another drunken cackle from the woman, Ron smiled to himself and hurried down the road. Findlay would be occupied for a while yet – but he was in for a very nasty surprise.

Rita rushed into the kitchen just as they were all about to sit down for tea. ‘You’ll never guess,’ she said breathlessly as she ripped off her helmet and goggles and undid her leather flying jacket. ‘The police are swarming all over the Anchor and carting out boxes and boxes of stuff.’

Peggy turned from the stove. ‘Any sign of Findlay?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Someone told me he’d been arrested along with some woman. They’re being questioned down at the Police Station.’ She washed her hands in the sink and shook them dry. ‘It’s all very exciting, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a police raid before, and it’s drawn quite a crowd.’

‘Well, it’s about time he had his come-uppance,’ Peggy said flatly. ‘That one has sailed too close to the wind for too long, if you ask me.’ She glanced at Ron, who seemed to be taking this piece of news very calmly. ‘You don’t seem very surprised, Ron,’ she remarked. ‘I hope you haven’t done anything silly.’

‘Me?’ His eyes widened innocently as he opened a fresh pack of tobacco and started to fill his pipe. ‘I’m just pleased he’s been caught at last. Cliffehaven can do without men like him.’

‘But if he’s been arrested the pub will be shut and Rosie will probably lose her licence,’ said Peggy.

‘I’ll have a word with the police in the morning,’ he said as he eased back in his chair to enjoy the ill-gotten tobacco that was burning very satisfactorily in his pipe. ‘Brenda and Pearl will be quite happy to take over the bar again until Rosie gets back, and I can carry on doing the barrels and seeing to the deliveries and the books.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’ said Peggy with more than a glimmer of suspicion in her eyes. ‘And what if the police revoke the licence anyway and keep the pub shut? What will you do then?’

‘Ach, you worry too much, woman,’ he said dismissively. ‘The police don’t want an empty pub on their hands, and Rosie’s done no wrong. They’ll listen to reason from a respectable citizen like me, you see if they don’t.’

Peggy eyed the tattered shirt, the baggy trousers and whiskery chin. ‘If you want to look even remotely respectable, I suggest you shave and find some decent clothes to wear. Which reminds me.’ She turned and fished a parcel out of her shopping bag. ‘I used some of your coupons to buy you two new shirts. You owe me three bob.’

Ron bolted upright. ‘Three bob? Good God, woman, what’ve you bought?’

Peggy turned back towards the stove so he couldn’t see her smile. The old so-and-so had been up to something, she just knew it, and if he’d been the reason why Findlay was now in a police cell, then he’d done the whole town a favour. As to the shirts, they would last, as long as she made sure he didn’t wear them while he was mucking about in his garden.

She continued to smile as she tested the stew she’d made from boiling a large meat bone with vegetables and pearl barley. Tea was ready.

Ron had shaved and dressed in his best suit and one of his new shirts, and even polished his shoes. Bundling up his old clothes with a bit of string, he’d tied them to the handlebars and cycled to the Police Station, Harvey’s howls of anguish at being left behind following him down the street.

It hadn’t taken long to get all the information he needed from his old pal, Sergeant Blake. Findlay would be charged not only with running a disorderly house, but with black-marketeering, tax evasion, and theft. Having several previous convictions for similar offences, he was looking at a very long sentence behind bars.

With Sergeant Blake’s help, Ron had managed to persuade the Station Inspector to let him run the pub until Rosie got back, and although it would seriously curtail his poaching and the amount of time he could spend
with his young ferrets, he didn’t mind the sacrifice. Now he was returning from his visit to Brenda and Pearl, with their assurances that they’d come in and help to clean up the place before they opened up that evening.

He had everything organised and was feeling very pleased with himself as he cycled back to the pub and let himself in at the side door. It was quiet and still, and now he knew Findlay was out of the picture, Ron was ready to return Rosie’s little parlour to its former glory.

He changed into his old clothes, rolled up the sleeves of his ragged shirt and looked around. He would start by taking the covers off the chairs and the cushions, then he’d get the curtains down and open the windows to get rid of the stink of Findlay and his tarts.

Once this was achieved, he found a cardboard box and began to empty the ashtrays and gather up the old newspapers and magazines that were lying around. The discarded bottles filled three crates, and in the tiny kitchen he found enough empty cans and packets and old fish and chip wrappings to almost fill the dustbin. He found a bra and a pair of lacy knickers stuffed down the back of the couch, and these went straight in with the rest of the rubbish.

He had to steel himself to go into Rosie’s bedroom, for he’d never been in there before and felt like an interloper, and dreaded what he might find. But Findlay was obviously particular about where he slept, for the room was surprisingly tidy and his clothes were neatly hung in the wardrobe or folded into a drawer.

The sprigged wallpaper was a bit faded, but it was as feminine and pretty as the curtains and eiderdown. There was the wardrobe and a dressing table, and the window looked out over the scrap of back garden beyond the rooftops to where a line of glittering blue formed the horizon between sea and sky.

Ron stripped the bed, flung the windows open to get rid of the man’s smell and then added the curtains to the pile of washing. Findlay’s clothes didn’t take long to pack in the two suitcases he’d found on top of the wardrobe, and Ron tossed in the hairbrushes and the collection of tiepins, collar studs and cufflinks he found in a dish on the dressing table.

He tried not to linger over Rosie’s dresses and coats hanging in the wardrobe, or her sweaters and blouses and delicate underwear which were still neatly folded in the chest of drawers. He missed her so much that it was a physical ache. Despite the fact that she’d left without any explanation or goodbye, he had to keep believing that she still loved him back.

Needing to expunge Findlay from Rosie’s flat, Ron swept everything off the shelves in the bathroom straight in with the rubbish. He laughed out loud when he discovered a spare set of false teeth hidden in the dressing-gown pocket, and felt an enormous amount of satisfaction when he committed them to the rubbish bin. The little rat would just have to manage with one set from now on, for Her Majesty’s prisons would provide a shaving kit and flannels, but he doubted very much that they would stretch to new dentures.

Having finished packing the suitcases, Ron was about to fasten and buckle the straps when he caught sight of a book on the bedside table. He was surprised the man had time to read, and was intrigued to see what sort of thing he liked. He picked it up, saw that it was some cheap western with a lurid cover and tossed it into the case. But as the pages fluttered something fell out and slid to the floor.

Ron stood looking at it for a long while, and then slowly bent to pick it up. The envelope had been opened but it was addressed to him, and the handwriting was unmistakably Rosie’s. He closed his eyes against the tears of rage and took a moment to find calm again. If he’d had a moment of doubt over grassing on Findlay then this was his redemption.

Sinking to the floor, he drew out the sheet of paper which had the scent of her still on it. It was dated the day she’d left Cliffehaven.

My dearest, dearest Ron
,

I’m so sorry if I’ve hurt you these past weeks, but when I explain what has been happening, I hope you will understand and forgive me.

My husband’s family have become very religious since Jack was committed to the insane asylum, and have never approved of me moving so far from him and trying to make a new life for myself. They have always felt that, as Jack’s wife, I should keep close and carry on as if things might get better and that we could live as husband and wife again. This is not
even a remote possibility – in fact there has been little evidence up to now to show that he even knows who I am. But I can understand how his parents need to believe that their son isn’t doomed to spend the rest of his tragic life in a secure cell.

Their last letter was extremely upsetting, for they accused me of abandoning Jack and taking up with another man. They quoted long passages from the Bible, calling me a Jezebel and the devil’s harlot, and warned me that my sins would find me out, and that I’ll burn in eternal hell if I don’t repent. I don’t believe in all that tosh, but it still upset me to realise how little they respected me after all these years. I don’t know if someone told them about you, or whether they picked it up from my letters, because I realise now that I must have mentioned you many times over the past months. But it made me stop and think. I need to distance myself from you so that I’m not distracted by my feelings for you. Am I being fair to you, to Jack, or to myself, by loving you when I know there can be no future for us all the while Jack is still alive? I cannot wish my husband dead, Ron, for I loved him once, and owe him my loyalty.