The Darkest Hour (10 page)

Chapter 14

T
HE BRITISH LION
was hiding from a sixty-two-year-old cleaning lady by sitting in a toilet cubicle with his trousers around his ankles.

Rossett had arrived back at the Wapping station ten minutes before, slipping inside via the back door that opened onto the garage. He’d passed through the late afternoon’s nearly deserted station like a wraith, most of its occupants having left for the day, and trotted up the stairs on his toes so as not to make a sound. He’d been pleased with his progress right up until he had exited the stairwell onto the floor that his office was on. It was then that he had seen Edna’s backside, like some lumbering elephant backing toward him, swiping a mop this way and that like a trunk with every step. He’d ducked into the toilet to avoid her and the bone-crushing boredom that would come with the gossip the woman endlessly emitted whenever she had an audience.

It was only when he entered the toilets that he realized he was trapped. He couldn’t risk going back outside where she might spot him. Just ignoring her wasn’t an option either; Edna could block a corridor with a mop and bucket better than a fallen tree could block a country lane. The last thing Rossett wanted was to be stuck with her if Brewer turned up. He didn’t want to meet his boss in case he’d heard about the trouble at Charing Cross. The thought of Brewer’s raising his voice again made him shudder. Not through fear of the inspector, but fear that he might just snap and end up killing his boss with a mop.

Rossett opened a cubicle door and sat down. He stared at the toilet exit and heard the clang of the mop bucket as it moved ever closer, like some sort of galvanized glacier. He sighed, leaned back, pushed the cubicle door closed, and dropped his trousers, letting them sit around his ankles.

Even Edna wouldn’t disturb a man at one with his toilet. Rossett remembered his father crossing the backyard with a copy of the
Daily Mirror
, heading for the privy. He smiled at the memory; it seemed as if he was watching someone else’s life. He could see the kitchen table, hear his mother singing and watch his father through the distorted glass of the back window. Another life, another lifetime ago.

The toilet door opened and Rossett tensed. He looked at the back of his cubicle door as if he could see through it and coughed the universal cough of the engaged.

“You going to be long, Mister Rossett?” Edna called, her voice as shrill as a cockney mynah bird.

Rossett clenched his fist to his forehead and grimaced before answering in a voice that he hoped sounded more relaxed than he felt.

“Just a minute.”

“Cor, you’ve had a day an’ a half, ain’t yer?” called Edna, foot jammed in the door and Woodbine bobbing. “I ’eard about you ’avin a little kiddy with you and then gettin’ into a fight with some Germans. Is that true?”

Rossett closed his eyes and leaned back, disbelief flooding his battered brain.

“You don’t ’alf like fightin’ them Germans, don’t you? I wonder sometimes why they give you a job in the first place, what with you killin’ so many of ’em during the war. My ’Arry reckons it’s so they can keep an eye on you, so you don’t go round killin’ another load of ’em. My ’Arry bagged a few in the first war, not as many as . . .”

Rossett stepped out and went through the motions of washing his hands. He’d flung the cubicle door open with such force that Edna broke off from her rambling and let the exit door close an inch or two before shouldering it open again.

“I was just saying, my ’Arry bagged a few, but not as many as you. Mind, he never got no medal for it, what with ’im deserting when ’e was on leave. I told ’im, I said, ‘You get your arse back there and fight,’ but . . .”

Rossett dried his hands and pulled the exit door, causing Edna to sway slightly as the weight lifted off her. Rossett stopped and stared at her for a moment before making a decision.

“Edna?”

“Yes, Mr. Rossett?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Edna raised a hand to her mouth and stared at him for a moment before taking up the mop and turning toward the toilets. Rossett watched her go and for a moment considered apologizing but then decided against it. Upsetting her was a price worth paying for some peace and quiet.

He walked to his office, quickly closing the door behind him and sitting down at his desk. He listened for a moment and stared at the frosted glass of the door in case Edna found her voice again and burst in looking for a fight. Once he was certain he was going to be left alone, he unlocked the drawer and saw that the red velvet pouch was still there, just as he had left it.

He carefully held it over the drawer, so that he could drop it back inside if disturbed, opened it, and slid three fingers in, pulling out some of the coins.

Three bright gold sovereigns looked up at him, and they felt warm to the touch. The afternoon light was fading as the fog descended, so Rossett clicked on the small desk lamp and held the coins close to the bulb.

This pouch could change my life, he thought. There must be over a hundred of these things in here.

His office door opened, and Rossett simultaneously clenched his fist around the coins and dropped the pouch into the drawer as he looked up to see who was coming in without knocking.

Brewer stood in the doorway. He had his overcoat on and looked to be heading home.

“What are you doing here? I was told you’d gone on leave.” Brewer looked around the small office as if seeing it for the first time.

“I had a few things to sort out before I went, couple of files to be signed off.”

The two men looked at each other, unsure of what to say. Rossett felt uneasy, not because he was holding three gold sovereigns tightly in his fist either. There was something about Brewer that seemed strange; he hadn’t expected Rossett to be there when he’d opened the door. That meant he was coming into the office for another reason. Rossett’s nerves twitched again as he thought of the pouch that lay in the open drawer inches from his right hand. He willed himself not to look down at it or close the drawer.

“Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

Brewer looked unsure for moment. He looked out into the corridor and then back into the office, buying time, thought Rossett. Maybe he wasn’t going home, maybe he had come back to the station to check on Rossett?

“Koehler called. He told me you had some bother up at Charing Cross. Is that right?”

“It’s all sorted now.”

“What happened?”

“A misunderstanding, nothing for you to worry about.”

“He said you got rid of that Jew.”

“He’s heading out on the Sunday train, sir.”

“Good, that could have been embarrassing.” Brewer turned to walk away, then stopped and looked back at Rossett.

“What Sunday train?”

“Major Koehler said there was a train arranged?”

“Not as far as I’m aware. I have to sign off the schedules and I’ve not seen one.” Brewer shrugged. “Anyway, not to worry. It’s not our problem now.”

Rossett felt his stomach shift and suddenly the coins felt heavy in his hand. It was his turn to look around the office.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Rossett?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re clenching your fist so hard I can see the whites of your knuckles, man. You need to relax.”

Rossett glanced down at his fist, then eased his hold on the coins but kept them in his hand. He forced himself to look back up at Brewer and smile.

“I’m okay, sir, I just need a bit of a holiday. Few days off will sort me out.”

“Get along then. Leave what you have to do until you come back.”

Brewer pushed the office door open and stepped back, flicking his head as an invitation for Rossett to leave.

“I’ll only be a minute, sir, just a couple of signatures.”

“Leave them. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Rossett felt his heart speeding up. He was certain Koehler had told Brewer to check his office. Had he also asked him to search it? He couldn’t leave the coins there, just as he couldn’t suddenly mention them out of the blue.

But Koehler didn’t know about the coins. Maybe he was just being paranoid?

The coins seemed to heat up in his fist.

“Honestly, sir, I’ll just be a minute.”

Brewer was about to speak when Edna appeared at his shoulder. She glared at Rossett before jabbing the inspector in the ribs with the end of her mop.

“ ’E’s a bleedin’ disgrace to this station and you proper police! I’ve never bin so insulted. When my ’Arry finds out what ’e’s said ’e’ll be down ’ere to knock ’is bleedin’ block off!”

Brewer tried to shield his ribs as the old cleaner jabbed him again. He turned to Edna, and as he did Rossett reached down, snatched the pouch out of the drawer, and slipped it into his raincoat pocket in one movement. Relief flooded through him and he almost cried out with delight.

Brewer grabbed the end of Edna’s mop.

“Stop jabbing me, woman! What are you on about?”

“ ’Im!” She pulled the mop free and waved it toward Rossett, who was rising, hand emerging from his inside pocket. Rossett smiled warmly at Edna, further enraging her, so that she now wielded the mop pole like a musketeer’s rapier in his general direction.

“Are you still going on?” said Rossett as he rose from behind his desk. Edna’s eyes bulged and the mop pole froze for the briefest of moments before she prodded Brewer with it again.

“Did you ’ear that? He’s a bleedin’ disgrace! To think that tongue has spoken to the old king, Gawd bless ’im!”

Edna was shrieking now, and for a moment Rossett thought Brewer would produce his sap and set about the woman to quiet her down. Instead, Brewer eased himself back into Rossett’s office, defending himself only with strategically placed elbows covering his tender ribs.

“Stop it! Calm down at once! If you don’t stop shouting I’ll have you ejected from the building!”

Using Brewer as a shield, Rossett stepped out of the office. A few heads had popped out of offices along the corridor, and he shrugged in reply to their puzzled glances. Behind him he heard Brewer trying to placate the cleaner as he backed out of the office. Rossett walked toward the exit, pleased that for the first time that day he wasn’t the center of attention. He pushed open the door that led to the stairs and started to jog down them, toward the car, toward peace and quiet.

Chapter 15

R
OSSETT WAS
N’T A
fan of pubs. They reminded him of the times when he was a detective before the war. Long, smoky afternoons stretching into nights like a contented cat. Colleagues and criminals and a tone-deaf pianist playing a half-dead piano in the corner of the room.

Pubs reminded him of the happy times, when he had joined in with the songs, enjoyed the rowdy laughter that erupted from groups of good friends, watched lovers holding hands under the table, and always had a pint waiting for him before he’d got his coat off.

Rossett wasn’t a fan, but he needed a drink, and he needed one badly.

Rossett knew that needing a drink and wanting a drink were two very different things. He knew that wanting a drink nudged your brain and cocked its head toward the bar with a cheeky smile and a wink, and if you were in the mood you joined it for a pint.

But needing a drink was an altogether different sort of character. Needing a drink squeezed your head and poked at your eyes; needing a drink scratched at your throat and choked your tongue till it felt swollen and flopped around your mouth like a dead carp in a bucket. Needing a drink was a demon that wouldn’t leave you alone until you were lying on the floor, begging for mercy, tears flowing, grasping for something that had gone away.

Needing a drink was a bastard, but right now, Rossett needed a drink.

He stared at the pub. It was called the Harp, and although it was close to Wapping it didn’t see many coppers pass through its doors. That was why Rossett drank there when he had this painful thirst. Nobody to see him falling down and suffering silent tears as he was propped in the corner by someone who felt pity for the drunk that he was.

He liked the Harp, with its leaded frosted windows and its averted gaze. It didn’t talk about him the next morning because it didn’t remember him.

He stared at the windows. The light-colored glass was lit from inside, and he could see the outlines of people, almost make out the pint glasses held in their hands, laughing and joking, calling to him. He looked down at his own hands and thought about Jacob. The boy had reached for them and held them that morning, clinging on for dear life, grasping tightly the hand of a man who had let him slip away.

He needed a drink.

He was going to have a drink.

Rossett got out of the car and crossed the pavement toward the pub. Breathing hard, he pushed open the door and immediately felt at home with the smoke and the sounds he’d hated moments before.

Just a couple, he told himself, until I get some petrol.

“What can I get you, love?” The barmaid smiled.

“Bitter and a Scotch.”

“Ooh, you mean business.”

“I’m not stopping long.”

With big brown eyes she smiled at him, knowing he would be. She’d heard it all before, seen the look, the lick of the lips, the leer of the alcoholic hopping off the wagon that was taking him home.

Rossett already had some coins waiting on the bar before she finished pouring the pint, and by the time the whiskey turned up the pint was half gone.

“Tough day?”

“Yeah.” Rossett looked around the pub with a half turn, scoping the room quickly and expertly.

“You work local?”

He took another drink and put the almost-empty pint glass back down on the bar before reaching for the Scotch.

“Another pint.” He killed the conversation and then drank the Scotch in one swift drain of his glass. He shook his head as he felt the burn in his throat and chest. The barmaid returned and looked at the empty glass as she placed his pint on the bar.

“Another?”

Rossett nodded as the barmaid picked up the glass, her turn to shake her head.

He leaned his right elbow on the bar and took another look around the pub. He could feel the alcohol relaxing him, easing its way through his bloodstream like mercury. He exhaled deeply and took a more measured sip of his pint as the barmaid put the Scotch on the bar. He paid her without speaking and just nodded when she returned with his change.

The bar was half full, thick with smoke and noise. It hadn’t changed in the year or so since he’d last been there. Most of the clientele were dockers, big burly hard-drinking men who started their days early and grafted hard for their money. The remainder were heavy drinkers who had slipped down the road, coming to rest in the bottom of a glass.

He sipped his pint and looked around for a table. The long narrow bar was filling up as people sought shelter from the night. Table space was at a premium, so if he wanted to sit down he was going have to share, and he wasn’t in the mood for sharing. He was never in the mood for sharing.

He sipped his pint and turned back to the bar, where the big brown eyes were waiting.

“I’m glad to see you’ve slowed down a bit, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to keep up.”

Rossett nodded, regretting standing right next to the pumps. The barmaid finished pouring a pint and took it to a waiting customer up the other end of the bar as Rossett took out his cigarettes and lit one. He placed both elbows on the bar and stared at his pint for a moment, feeling the weight of the sovereigns pulling at his raincoat pocket and his conscience. He took a drag of the cigarette and washed down the smoke with the last of his bitter before waving his glass down the bar, hoping to catch those brown eyes.

He thought about Jacob and wondered if the child was okay.

“Bitter?”

Rossett looked up into those brown eyes again and nodded, thinking they reminded him of someone.

“I am, but can I have a drink as well?” The brown eyes smiled at his bad joke. “You must get sick of looking at miserable drunks,” Rossett said, aware that the drink was making him talk, taking his edge off.

“I get sick of looking at any kind of drunk, but at least the miserable ones keep themselves to themselves.”

“What’s your name?”

“Barbara, what’s yours?”

“Another Scotch, thanks.”

Barbara smiled and waited for Rossett to pay for the foamy pint that she had placed in front of him. He fished out some coins.

“Have one yourself, Barbara, so I can say sorry for being a miserable rude drunk.”

Barbara smiled and took the money to the till. She dropped some coins into her own glass and returned with the change and placed it next to Rossett’s pint.

“Been a bad day for you then?”

“Very bad, very very bad, if I’m honest.”

Rossett swirled the Scotch around its glass on the bar and then smiled at Barbara before picking it up and drinking half of it in one gulp. This time it didn’t burn too much. This time it went down easy, and somewhere deep inside an alarm triggered in Rossett, telling him he was getting drunk.

He decided to ignore it.

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“I let someone down, Barbara. I let them down badly.”

“They’ll understand. Can’t you explain tomorrow?”

“No, because he is gone, gone for good, never to be seen again. He needed my help, and I let him down.” As Rossett spoke he waved the glass in front of him.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that.”

“It is.”

“It’s just the drink talking. You’ll see, it’ll be better in the morning after you’ve had a sleep.”

“Lovely Barbara, you really have no idea, do you?”

Rossett finished the Scotch and tilted the empty glass toward her. He noticed her frown. She took the glass and poured another measure, taking the money from his change on the bar.

“You’re going to get drunk.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You should go home to your family.”

“I should, but I can’t, so I won’t.”

Rossett smiled sadly, and Barbara shook her head and made her way up the end of the bar. He watched her go and drank some more bitter; he’d scared her off, just as he always did when he was drunk. They liked him at first, but then his pain scared them away as it floated to the surface, buoyed up by the booze.

“I couldn’t even look after a child,” he said softly.

“Kids, eh? They drive you bloody mad if you let them.”

Rossett turned and found a docker standing next to him at the bar. The big man was waiting to be served and had overheard him muttering.

“What?” Rossett stood up from leaning on the bar and stared at the docker, who smiled back.

“I was just saying, kids . . . they drive you bloody mental if you let ’em. My two lads are grown up now. But they still drive me barmy sometimes. I say to them, ‘Why don’t you piss off and get your own place?’ But they never listen.”

Rossett tilted his head and took a sip of his beer as Barbara smiled at the docker and took his empty glass to fetch another drink.

“How many you got?” The docker smiled at Rossett again.

“None.”

“Count yourself lucky, mate. They bleed you dry.”

“Do they?”

“Yeah, once you got ’em you can’t get shot of ’em. Always looking for something. Lads are the worse, mind. My two never leave me alone. You, mate, are a very lucky man. If your missus ever wants kids you tell ’er what I said.”

“My missus is dead.”

The big man froze, not expecting the bluntness of Rossett’s reply.

“Eh? Oh, I’m sorry, guv, I didn’t know.” He stared at Rossett, looking for a rescue from his embarrassment, but he didn’t get one.

“So is my son. They were blown up, the pair of them. Bang . . . gone. Never seen again. They found bits, mind, but nothing you could look at and say ‘that’s them.’ No face or anything, just bits and pieces lying round here and there . . . that’s all.”

The docker stared at Rossett, then looked around the bar for rescue. He didn’t get one and turned back to Rossett.

“I don’t know what to say, mate.” He shook his head. “Bloody Germans.”

“It wasn’t Germans,
mate
. It was the English that did it. Pram full of explosives. BOOM!”

Rossett waved his hands in the air as he shouted “boom” and a few people in the bar looked around. The docker looked at Barbara and then back at Rossett. His mouth moved silently before he picked up his pint from the bar.

“I’m sorry, mate.”

“Why don’t you just piss off?” Rossett replied.

The docker nodded and turned to go.

“I’m sorry, mate.”

Rossett didn’t reply. He turned back to the bar, rested both elbows on it once more, and stared at his beer.

“I think you’ve had enough.”

Rossett looked up to Barbara, who had made her way down the bar toward him. She was wringing a towel in her hands. Rossett reached into his pocket, produced his warrant card, and flicked it toward her before dropping it back into his pocket.

“I think you need to get me another Scotch.”

It was getting dark.