The Fight for Lizzie Flowers (27 page)

‘Savage would have his balls for that,’ grunted Bert.

But Danny nodded. ‘You might be right, Cal. Lizzie put a notice on the door, saying about the wedding, that the shop would be closed for the day. He wouldn’t have known Frank was
there and planned to help himself. But things went wrong when he turned up to find you and Ethel there.’

‘But still went ahead,’ agreed Bert, nodding. ‘What a chump!’

‘Do you reckon anyone heard the shots?’ Danny asked.

‘Don’t think so,’ Cal replied.

Bert belched and rubbed his stomach. ‘That’s filled an ’ole.’

Danny stood up. He glanced at the oil-stained wooden clock hanging on the nail by the door. ‘We’d better get moving.’

‘Yeah, I just need the khazi.’ Bert hurried off and clattered down the rickety steps of the office to the lavatory outside.

‘You passing Lil’s?’ Cal asked as he stood with Danny at the top of the stairs.

Danny nodded. ‘If the car’s not outside I’ll know Lizzie’s gone back to the shop.’

Cal rubbed his black beard. ‘Didn’t have a chance to say much to Ethel. You reckon she’s all right?’

‘Dunno, Cal. She got a big fright.’

‘Yeah. Shook her up bad. If it hadn’t been for Frank our luck would’ve run out.’

Danny knew this was true. He should have been relieved that neither Cal nor Ethel was hurt. And he was, of course. But it annoyed him that Bill should have let Frank have the revolver. Frank had
broken Lizzie’s rule about firearms and all because he feared for his own safety. He’d have to have a serious word with his dad about that.

‘I’ve got to try to see Ethel,’ Cal said, but Danny shook his head.

‘You ain’t thinking of going round Lil’s?’

‘No, but that’s not the only place she’ll be.’

Danny wished he could give Cal a piece of advice; stay well away from Ethel for a while. But he only shrugged and muttered, ‘You don’t want to bump into her old man.’

Cal’s flexed his broad shoulders. ‘Why, what’s he like? Will he be up for aggro?’

‘He ain’t in your league, mate, if that’s what you’re thinking. But Richard Ryde ain’t just going to stand by and watch his wife walk off with another
man.’

‘Ethel says he’s not bothered.’

Danny seriously doubted Ethel’s take on that. Although he didn’t know Richard Ryde, at least not more than a few handshakes and that was a long time ago anyway, he couldn’t see
Ethel just walking out on her husband. She was a good woman, with a conscience. And perhaps that was something that Cal just didn’t understand. She wasn’t the type to get mixed up in
what had turned out to be a cold-blooded killing. It could be argued that Frank topping Savage’s man was self-defence. But the long and short of it was, they had all been witnesses – if
not accessories to murder.

Richard Ryde got off his bike, loosened the clips at his ankles and shook his trouser bottoms free. Carefully pushing the bike into the shed, he slipped his mac from his
shoulders and hung it on the peg to dry. The shower had been unexpected, but he always made sure he took his mac rolled up in his saddle bag. Glancing down at his dark suit, he saw no damage had
been done. He took off his spectacles, wiped the lenses carefully with his unused, starched white handkerchief and replaced them on his nose. Behind them, his pale hazel eyes searched the garden
through the shed window. The grass, which he’d mowed to its shortest this year, was a satisfactory green and for once Timothy and Rosie had observed his rules. There were no tyre marks to be
seen on the corners where they took a short cut over the lawn, through laziness, to the shed.

Richard’s gaze slewed slowly to the house. He was home early for a Friday. In fact he’d taken the afternoon off. Not something he approved of. But the accounts office where he worked
was closed for redecoration. True, the borough had allotted him a room down the hall, but it was hardly larger than a cupboard. There was no space at all for his ledgers and books. His typewriter,
which he insisted he used before handing his work to the typists, was perched on a table two feet by two; his office chair was too large to install in the cupboard and had been removed, along with
his effects, to a kind of communal space where there was no privacy at all. Who would believe that a London borough like Greenwich would find themselves in such disarray, just because of a few pots
of paint?

Richard took another long look at the back of his detached three-bedroomed house which he was now in the process of buying. Thanks to Mother, they were living in a desirable area, with civil
neighbours who worked in professional trades like himself. Blackheath was head and shoulders above Millwall and Poplar. Not that he’d ever consider moving back there. No, what a thought!

He drew his eyebrows together in distaste as he thought of his in-laws, Lil and Doug Sharpe. Mother had been right all those years ago, before his father had died, when she’d warned him
that marrying Ethel Sharpe was below his standing. Mother had even upped sticks from Poplar and moved across the water to Lewisham in order to end their courtship.

‘The island breeds dockers and costermongers, Richard,’ she had warned. ‘No refinement at all.’

But had he had the sense to listen?

No, he hadn’t planned a future then. Or even given Mother’s words a second thought. He was so besotted with Ethel, he’d cycled miles on end back to the island to court her.
Even now, Richard’s heart gave a little thump as he thought of Ethel in her school uniform, her blonde wavy hair bouncing over her blazer as he’d cycled beside her, too embarrassed to
speak. Well, he’d only been fifteen. And what had he known about women at that tender age?

What did he know about them now? Richard asked himself as he stepped out of the shed and marched towards the house.

Only that women made very little sense at all. He’d given Ethel everything. A decent house in a law-abiding neighbourhood, a holiday in summer in Brighton or Eastbourne and a standard of
living that, if Ethel had been thrifty, could have bought them a motor car too. But Ethel had no idea of money. She spent her entire wage on frivolities or spoiling herself and the children.

He should have put his foot down long ago, when she’d first applied for that menial job at Rickard’s, the haberdasher’s. He’d hoped that, as babies came along,
she’d be content to bring up the family and keep house. As women should. But what had she done? Only twisted Mother’s arm into having the children while she was at work. Not that Mother
ever complained. In fact, he was secretly pleased that Timothy and Rosie were being taught their ‘p’s and ‘q’s from someone whose high standards far outreached his
wife’s.

Richard tugged down his suit jacket and, stiffening his spine, strode towards the back door. The flower beds needed weeding. The path sweeping. Ethel couldn’t even be bothered to spend a
few hours out here! And she didn’t even have a job at the moment. What was he to make of that?

He rattled the handle, but the door was locked. He tried again and looked up at the bedroom window. There was no movement and so he took out his key and went round to the front of the house.
Here the borders were neat and orderly. Ones that he’d seen to himself the weekend before, when Ethel and the children were attending that nightmare of a wedding.

Flo Allen marrying Syd Miller! The notorious Millers of all people! Oh well, like attracted like, he supposed. But there was no way he was getting involved with a lot of ruffians and
law-breakers. It had been bad enough to witness the goings-on at Lizzie Allen’s wedding to Frank Flowers. Richard had been virtually strong-armed into that one. And look at the mess it turned
out to be! With that moron Flowers blatantly drunk and disorderly. Making up to trollops in front of his newly-wed wife’s eyes.

Well, no more family weddings after that, Richard had assured himself. If Ethel wanted to associate with these illiterates, she did so with his express disapproval. He’d warned her then
that one day she would regret getting so chummy with the Flowerses. They’d had an almighty row over it. He’d stuck to his guns though, even while Ethel had thrown some very unfair
accusations his way.

He wasn’t gloating now, but his warning to her had been proved right. Last Sunday afternoon, the day after the Miller wedding, Doug Sharpe had driven Ethel and the children home. Ethel had
hardly been able to meet his eyes when she stepped out of the car. And Richard knew why. Predictably, the aftermath had been riotous! He’d got it all out of Rosie in the end. Drunken singing
and dancing – and no doubt debauching – into the early hours of Sunday. What was in Ethel’s mind to expose herself and their children to such behaviour?

Richard felt a wave of anger wash over him. He’d just about managed to keep a lid on his temper when Doug had informed him that Ethel had been poorly. Well, of course she had, associating
with that rabble! She’d been coerced into drinking too much, no doubt, and paid the price for it.

Richard let himself in and stood in the hallway, listening for sounds.

‘Ethel!’ he shouted. ‘I’m home.’

He went into the kitchen and then the front room. The couch cushions were askew. Rosie had left her cardigan on the chair. No doubt in a rush to get out of the house for school this morning. And
the breakfast bowls in the kitchen were still piled in the sink. Ethel couldn’t even be bothered to wash them up.

‘Ethel?’ he yelled again, becoming angrier by the minute. Returning to the hall, he leaped the stairs to the landing and stood silently once more.

He dashed into the bedrooms, all three of them empty. Then he hurried downstairs again.

Not a sound. The house was deserted. Well, this time he was not having it. He was going to cycle over to the Sharpes’ and confront Ethel. This was not the first time he’d come home
to an empty house. When he’d demanded an explanation, Ethel had told him she was out shopping. But he knew exactly where she was. At No. 84 Langley Street, gossiping the day away with her
mother. Either that, or in company with Lizzie Flowers, who he thought possessed the morals of an alley cat.

A fine way for his wife to carry on!

Forgetting to put on his trouser clips, Richard dragged his bike from the shed. This kind of behaviour was totally unacceptable, he told himself as he pedalled furiously towards Greenwich and
the underground tunnel which would take him to the island. He was going to lay the law down today. Tell Lil Sharpe to keep her nose out of his family’s business. Ethel was his wife and she
should start behaving like one. She wasn’t a child any longer. To be fawned over and spoilt by parents who had undoubtedly not been able to sever the apron strings.

She was Mrs Ethel Ryde. And, come hell or high water, he was going to insist that she started behaving like it!

Lizzie stared out of the storeroom’s dirty window. It was Friday and almost a week since she’d last seen Danny. On Sunday afternoon he’d collected Tom and
driven them away in the car. She had tried to take comfort from the news that all had gone according to plan the night before. But Danny’s face was tense and his eyes wouldn’t quite
meet hers. She knew that disposing of a body and keeping that secret was weighing on his mind.

‘We’ll let the dust settle,’ he’d said briefly. ‘Just go about your business here. The body might wash up in the next few days. Or, if we’re lucky, not for
some while. If you need me, send Bert. Make sure Fowler or Elmo are here at all times. Keep your eyes peeled in case Savage shows up.’

Now, at the end of the week, there had been no sign of trouble. She was trying to act as normal. Each day she had scoured the newspapers. There had been nothing about a found body. But every
tinkle of the shop bell had jarred her nerves. She couldn’t stop looking up and down the road. She didn’t really know what for. But she was impelled to do it.

Bert had been unusually quiet. She had tried to ask him about that night. But he’d only confirmed what Danny had said. Now, as the morning trade began, Lizzie tried to revive her spirits.
She would tell Fowler to clean these dirty windows. And Bert could pay serious attention to the dirty floor.

Walking into the shop, Lizzie saw a pale face coming towards her. ‘Ethel? What are you doing here?’

‘I had to come,’ she whispered as Lizzie drew her to one side. ‘I’ve been going round the bend at home, not knowing anything.’

‘We can’t talk here.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘Frank’s upstairs, so we can’t go there, either.’

Ethel nodded, looking guilty. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

‘Listen, we’ll drive to the market. I buy all the leftovers on Fridays. Go and sit in the van parked outside in the road. I’ll only be a few minutes.’

Lizzie gave Bert and Fowler their instructions. Then she went upstairs to Frank. He was sitting, fully dressed, in the armchair, reading yesterday’s newspaper. Beside him was the walking
stick. He never went anywhere without it.

‘You managed a shave, then?’

He nodded. ‘And I made meself a Rosie. All the gas is off.’

As he was walking around now, Lizzie allowed him to make a drink. ‘I’m going out in the van.’

‘What if we get a visit?’

Lizzie knew Frank was obsessed with Savage’s return. He feared being unable to defend himself.

‘I told you the boys are downstairs.’

‘I wish I had me gun.’

‘Look what you did with one last time. And we’re all suffering the consequences.’

‘Would you rather your friends were dead?’

‘No, course not. But it might not have come down to that.’

Frank stared silently up at her with his pale blue eyes. He had put on a clean shirt and collar and tie. Was he getting better slowly? Would he be ready to leave soon?

‘I’ll be back this afternoon.’

‘Where’re you going?’

Lizzie took her bag and slipped it over her shoulder. ‘To Cox Street market, but don’t keep asking me what I’m doing, Frank. You make me nervous.’

‘Sorry.’ He picked the paper up from his knees.

Lizzie hurried downstairs, past Bert and Fowler and the queue of customers lining up on the pavement. She acknowledged them all in her usual friendly way; business had never been so good. The
thought nagged at her that she needed to plough back the money they were making into the new shop. But she couldn’t concentrate on that now.