The Factory Girl (50 page)

In the dim light of the passage the face above its dark clothes appeared to be disembodied. Only as he stepped into the brighter light of the room could Geraldine see it was a uniform. He held his helmet under his arm out of respect for being in someone's house.

‘This is me daughter, Geraldine,' Mum said as the man, with natural inquisitiveness instilled in him by his job, glanced briefly around the room. His gaze came to settle on her as Geraldine made to rise.

‘No, please sit down, Mrs Hanford.' The police constable's tone was kind though a certain ring of authority could be heard behind the kindness. ‘You are Mrs Geraldine Hanford?'

She sat as bidden and nodded her affirmation. Her first thoughts were that Tony must have been apprehended, that he must have implicated her in his confession, and a quiet fury began to boil up inside her at his treachery. Not content with leaving her for another woman, he was now intent on bringing her down with him, the bloody toad!

The constable's tone remained gentle. In fact she heard him take a deep, almost sad breath before continuing. ‘The wife of Mr Anthony Felton Hanford?'

The last time she had heard Tony's second name spoken had been at their wedding. It sounded strange now. Again she nodded, dismally this time. The constable moved forward a little into the room in a way that almost looked as though he were ready to offer aid.

‘It's my unpleasant duty,' he began in a lowered voice, ‘to tell you that a man's body has been found in the Thames, washed up on the mud by the receding tide, and we have reason to believe it might be your husband, Mrs Hanford.'

‘Oh, no!' The cry tore itself from her even as the constable went on.

‘The man had been in the water for some time, I'm afraid, and the only identification we have is the name of the tailor on the suit, and a—'

‘What makes you think it's my husband?' Geraldine burst through his words, all other thoughts pushed aside.

‘We found what was left of a leather pocket book in the breast pocket, with the name Anthony Felton Hanford impressed in gold in one corner.'

Yes, she remembered buying it for him two years ago. She didn't know he still had it, and the knowledge brought a pang of that old love she'd once known. The constable was still speaking, rapidly, as though eager to have this business over with.

‘The name on the pocket book led us to Hanford's, the jewellers in Bond Street. The assistant told us Mr Hanford had been missing for some while and that you were living at this address. I'm very sorry, Mrs Hanford. I understand how you must be feeling but we need you to formally identify the clothing and pocket book, and maybe the body.'

Alan had moved to her side, was holding her steady as Geraldine felt her knees growing weak and must have looked as though she were about to collapse. She was more grateful for his support than he realised.

‘It may not be your husband, Mrs Hanford,' the constable was saying. ‘But we have to be certain. I know what we're asking isn't pleasant for you, but we have to be certain. It is very important. It could be that of someone who had stolen the pocket book and some time later fallen into the river and drowned. May I ask if you know the name of your husband's tailor?'

As if in a dream, Geraldine supplied the name. The constable nodded solemnly. ‘It could still be that whoever was fished out took the coat as well. We have to consider every possibility. Of course, it's not easy to establish whether this was an accident, a suicide or even a murder. We will have to make investigations …'

‘Murder?' She clung to Alan. ‘You can't …'

‘Mrs Hanford.' The policeman had moved closer, yet his voice seemed to be coming from some way off. ‘All we need from you now is to identify the belongings. Then we can go on from there.'

His voice seemed to be drifting away from her. Alan was holding her tightly and Dad had come to stand close beside her. She could hear him speaking but could make no sense of it. No doubt he was taking in what the constable was saying about where they were to go to make the identification, but nothing was penetrating her brain except the word murder.

An accident was possible, but why should Tony need to be anywhere near the Thames? Suicide had to be ruled out – with all that money, surely not, unless his part in the robbery had been denied him and he'd come away with nothing. But it wasn't enough to make him commit suicide. He'd had what was at the time a thriving business. Maybe Di Manners had finished with him. She couldn't imagine that either. Murder then? Those villains who'd called themselves his friends? She going to the police?

‘Alan, I can't do it.' It was more guilt now than fear of seeing a dead body.

‘I'm afraid you have to, Mrs Hanford.' Gone the sympathy, in its place officialdom. But she held back.

‘Alan …'

‘I'll be with yer, love.' He was holding her so tightly it was difficult to breathe. ‘I won't let yer do anythink yer don't want to.'

Between her father and Alan, Geraldine stood by the slab with its coarse cloth forming a mound over what lay beneath. The clothes and pocket book had been his. She still hadn't quite collected her wits, stood now like a lump of clay, her mind and body feeling numb as though neither belonged to her. She winced as she heard her father ask how long did they think the man had been in the water, and the reply, a couple of months at least.

She heard herself being asked if her husband had any distinguishing marks on his body and remembered the wide scar on his thigh, a war wound he'd said. That seemed to be good enough, and she heard herself being told that this was her husband.

Unable even to feel relieved that she hadn't been required to view the body, all she wanted now was to leave here and go home. Without a word, hardly bowing her head to the commiserations from those men conducting this business, she let herself be led from the building and helped into Alan's van, she and Dad squeezed on the seat next to him.

There was a lot to be done: funeral arrangements; papers to be signed; Tony's parents had been told, naturally. Geraldine wrote to them, giving them the date of the funeral, the time and place. It wasn't easy writing. She'd had as little to do with them as had Tony and owed them nothing, but she worded the letter as kindly as she could.

They wrote back by return, their reply cold as she had half expected it to be, though at least she had thought they'd have thawed a little towards her in their combined hour of grief. But no, it was formal, stating they were sorry and also their sorrow at Tony cutting himself off as he had on marrying her. As if they blamed her entirely. They'd attend the funeral, would have preferred to arrange it themselves but of course she was his widow. The letter had tailed off there, that in itself sounding like an accusation, the brief letter being signed merely with his father's quite unreadable signature.

Fenella was far more genuine. Geraldine couldn't bring herself just to write or even phone her. So the very same afternoon of being told herself of Tony's death, she went to see her. Alan had offered to go along with her but she insisted on going alone. Tony concerned only herself and his sister. It had been hard enough telling her without someone who was a stranger to her looking on. She'd been the first one Geraldine had told about Tony's affair.

Her advice had been to give like for like, let him see what he was losing. ‘Might even make him jealous enough to come back to you,' she'd offered. It hadn't been the brightest of advice but the best she'd been able to give, but just having her take her side was in itself a help.

When Geraldine finally told her about Alan, she her most loyal confidante, Fenella had cuddled her with something like triumph and said, ‘Good for you, darling, you took my advice, how wonderful! That'll show him, the crazy man. I know he's my brother but he can be quite stupid. Now he'll maybe see you're not to be done down and come back, tail between his legs.'

Of course he hadn't, but she wondered if he might have done if this thing hadn't happened.

As Fenella had been the one Geraldine had turned to from the very start, in some way making up for his cold-hearted parents, Geraldine now felt she must support her, Tony's only sister. It was hard going there in person: the trauma of telling her, the awfulness of seeing Fenella's expression of shocked disbelief, then grief, the two of them holding each other, each in their separate kind of sorrow and misgivings, the self-condemnation that a death always brings, sorrowing after the things left undone and those things done that shouldn't have, each nursing their own trivial personal guilts, neither voicing them to the other.

On the day of the funeral Fenella and her husband arrived at the house early, bringing neighbours out to gawk as Geraldine saw her and her husband alight from their large, cream-coloured Renault – not exactly a funereal colour, Geraldine had to admit, but with a smirk for Fenella, ever the flamboyant one. She showed no distaste for Mum and Dad's ordinary home and cuddled Mum to her as though she were a true relative, as she did Alan on being introduced to him, whispering in his ear, Alan told her later, ‘Look after her, Alan, my dear, she deserves some happiness.'

She merely shook hands with Dad, but the handshake was warm and genuinely friendly.

Cuddling Geraldine to her, she gushed, ‘Darling, such an awful time for you, even though … well, you know. But he was my brother and it's such a terrible thing to have happened. I've been so down in the mouth ever since you told me, and I keep crying.'

Later she said, ‘I've spoke to Mother and she and Father will be at the cemetery, and afterwards will go straight back home. They said that they thought it would be too much for them to come back to the house. After all, they lost Tony's brother in the war and now they've lost their other son.'

One would have thought they'd have made more of their other son when he was alive, being as he was the only one left, thought Geraldine as she agreed it would be too traumatic for them to prolong their day of mourning. She was glad she did not have to face them, and indeed found herself totally ignored as they established themselves on one side of the aisle and then on the other side of the grave. Mrs Hanford did give her a wan smile and bent her head briefly before following her husband to his Rolls-Royce parked in the cemetery roadway.

Geraldine returned the smile but looked away immediately. She had married their son but she was nothing to these people. She would be even less now if that were possible, gratefully forgotten.

It was November and still Tony's affairs hadn't been settled. Without a will, intestacy took far longer than if there'd been one. On top of that were all the debts of the business to be settled. If anything came to her as his widow, Geraldine knew it would be precious little and she had only herself to blame.

‘How could I have been such a fool?' She stared glumly at Alan's back as he gazed from his living-room window to the houses opposite through a November drizzle. ‘But it was the only way I could get back at him.'

He'd weathered her anger with herself this Sunday afternoon rather well, she thought. He must be weary of hearing it from her, yet she couldn't stop herself. There were days when she felt quite normal, others when guilt would rip through her, she blaming herself for Tony's death and, a much more self-seeking regret, the way she had worked towards that wish to see him bankrupt. His death had put a stop to that but not before a great deal of harm had been done. Now, on top of all else she was in a quandary about what to do with the rapidly sinking business, and for the last half-hour had been leaping from the one to the other in this verbal soul-searching.

‘After what he did, of course I'd want to get back at him. It was only natural. But it's what I did going to the police that upsets me.'

Alan turned slowly, but his expression was mild. ‘Yer can't go on blaming yerself, Gerry. Yer've got ter stop it.'

‘But I do blame myself. I should never have gone to the police like I did. If it hadn't been for me, he might've been alive today.'

‘Yer can't be sure of that.' Alan strode over to her and took her by the shoulders forcing her to look at him. She now saw exasperation on his face. There was only so much even a mild-mannered man could take.

‘Gel, yer've been goin' over this lark time and time again, on an' off ever since yer 'usband went. Sooner or later yer've got ter get over it or yer'll put yerself in an early grave in the end.'

Easy to say, but he wasn't her. ‘I don't think I'll ever be able to get over it, ever forgive myself. In a way I've got what I deserve, haven't I, by doing what I did about his business and having that come back on me. I've made a rod for my own back there, haven't I? It's almost as if he's got his revenge on me.'

‘Don't be silly.'

‘Well, it's true. If I hadn't led him into such debt I wouldn't have a failing business around my neck now. I inherit everything he had, including his business rapidly going down the pan because of me. I've got my deserts.'

His hands on her shoulders tightened in an effort to stop her ranting. ‘Look, I can understand that business worrying the life out of yer, but yer've got ter stop blamin' yerself for the other thing. He could of slipped and fallen in.'

‘How?' she challenged. ‘People don't just fall into the Thames by accident.' How many times had she said this? ‘You can't unless it's from a boat. Bridges have parapets and railings. Places like the Embankment have parapets and railings. Unless you stand on one and that's only to commit suicide. I don't believe he would have done that. No, Alan, it was them thugs. They found out what I did and got rid of him before he blabbed as well, I'm sure of it.' Nothing would ever change her mind about that.

She knew what she was doing was frightening Alan, he seeing their wedding never happening. Sometimes she frightened even herself. She so wanted to marry him. Two months ago he had proposed, she'd responded with an immediate yes, at the time able to put her past behind her. But like all shadows it persisted in creeping up behind her, catching her up and running ahead to loom back at her. Now she was in danger of pushing him from her. But it was so hard to stop what kept going through her head. Oddly enough she had no nightmares, just this daytime remorse that she ought to be controlling by now.