Nobody spoke. Baldy sat there like some Sunday school teacher explaining a parable, looking pleased with himself, not like a man who had problems. Maybe he thought he was talking somebody into making a false move.
‘As we see it, your son might have been involved in the attack on Thomas. I say might have, because we do not know for certain. I hope you’ll bear with me in this. I’m merely trying to piece the bits of this case together. If he was involved in the attack on Thomas, it might explain the blood on the seat of the bus. The police at Leman Street are having some tests made to see whether the blood found at the scene of the murder, other than Thomas’s, and that found on the seat of the bus are from one and the same person. I expect to hear the result of their tests pretty soon.
‘However, here’s another point. Thomas’s friends all say he was very strong, a very keen amateur weight-lifter and boxer. About five eleven and a half, weight about thirteen stone. The M.O.’s report says that he was in superb physical condition.’
Here he turned to our Dad. ‘Your son was the identical twin of Jack here, so shall we say six feet tall and weighing about eleven stone, eleven stone four, five, thereabouts?’
‘Eleven six,’ I told him, just to be helpful.
‘Thank you. Our guess is that there was more than one attacker involved. Thomas would normally have been more than a match for someone weighing eleven stone six or so. That is if the attacker was your son. Unless the attack was from behind. According to the autopsy, the wound which killed Thomas was in the abdomen, although there was another superficial stabwound in the back. Apart from these, there were several abrasions on the face and on the body, suggesting that he may have been struck with a blunt instrument or kicked while on the ground. As I mentioned before, it seems that he put up quite a fight.
‘Another possibility is that Thomas was attacked by someone much bigger and stronger than himself. The local police are trying to trace his movements and associations to see if they can discover someone who had a grudge against him. We’re not ruling out the possibility that robbery was the motive but that the attacker panicked and fled without attempting to rob the body. On the other hand, if robbery was not the motive, Thomas’s attacker was some person or persons who hated him. Probably for some real or fancied wrong. Hated him enough to kill him.’
He stopped talking and let his sugary smile get some practice, while his eyes flickered to me, our Dad and Mum, then back to me. Nobody was arguing with him, he was playing his tune and dancing all by himself.
‘There is, however,’ he went on, ‘one possibility we cannot overlook. That is that Thomas’s attackers did not intend to kill him at all. Probably jumped him in the dark intending to rough him up a bit. We’ve been hearing one or two reports of that sort of thing happening lately. Groups of young men beating up individual coloured people. No complaints from the people themselves. Just rumours and hearsay. Could be that somebody, or a few of them, tried it on Thomas and he put up a fight so they used a knife on him.
‘You know, in my experience, most of the killings we have to deal with are never intentional. Done on the spur of the moment. A situation gets out of hand, somebody loses his temper, or is frightened, or hurt or getting the worst of it and the next thing you know, he uses a knife or a gun or something and somebody dies. No murder intended. At least not in the heart or the mind. Can happen to anyone. I mean, who is a murderer? Before the act is committed such a person looks just like anyone of us. After the act we tend to think of him as some kind of monster.
‘No, in my experience, and my colleague will support me in this, anyone can kill, provided all the circumstances conducive to such an act are present at a certain time, in a certain place. If it so happens that David Bennett was involved in the murder of Carlton Thomas, it may well be one of those occasions on which no murder was planned or intended. It could happen to you,’ he looked at our Dad, ‘or me or young Jack here.’
I looked him straight in the eyes; the smile around his mouth didn’t reach up that high and his glance back at me was pure policeman. He had been idly turning his hat in his hands, but now he held it as if ready to put it on his head.
He stood up, his shadow imitating him. ‘Suppose I’m breaking all kinds of official rules by discussing the case like this, but I wanted you to know a little of what’s happening, especially as we’re still holding some of your son’s property. By the way, did you go out at all on the night your brother was killed?’
I suppose he thought he’d catch me napping by asking that one so suddenly. He must think young people were idiots.
‘No, I didn’t go anywhere that night,’ I said, watching him. If he really knew something, well, out with it. Dave had gone into the station ahead of me and bought the tickets, then we’d gone through the barrier. That was the only snag, that the ticket clerk at Upminster might have remembered selling Dave two tickets. Then Baldy would be wondering why Mum and me lied about my going out. Well, the hell with him, he’d have to prove I was there. The fellow at the barrier had been reading a newspaper and didn’t even look at us as we walked past him into the station.
Baldy said nothing more, and they left.
‘Those fellows never give up,’ Dad said, casual as you please. And I’d been worrying about what he might say.
I rang Miss Spencer three times that week but nobody answered the telephone. I’d checked the number in the directory and phoned the Wednesday evening; the line rang and rang, but nothing. I even checked with Directory Enquiries to make sure I was on to the right number and the operator rang it for me, but no reply. So I figured they were out visiting somewhere. Next night I rang again, soon as I got home from work, but still no answer. Tried three times, around seven-thirty, nine and ten-thirty. Same tune. The bell ringing its ruddy head off and nobody answering.
Told myself to hell with her, I wasn’t ringing because I liked the bitch or felt friendly to her. I just wanted to get close to her to make her pay for embarrassing Mum, right in our own home, that’s all. Just close enough to make her realize that she was nothing but a Spade, in spite of all her fancy airs. Probably knew they wouldn’t be there, that’s why she said I could telephone. Bloody spiteful bitch. If she didn’t want me to ring she could have said so, instead of having me waste my ruddy time ringing and ringing. Just what one should expect from a Spade. Treat them decently like other people and what happens. They begin to pile on the ruddy agony. Well, to hell with it. Not any more. I’d only rung her because I promised I would. But not again.
However, later on I thought a bit about it while I was lying on my bed and figured that, after all, she couldn’t know it was me ringing. I wasn’t the only person who might want to ring her. Hell, she couldn’t not answer just because it might be me. No, it didn’t make sense. Probably she and her mother were doing something which kept them out late.
I rang again just before midnight, but still no reply. I went to bed feeling hurt and angry. Sleep was a long time coming. I rang from the call-box at work lunch time that Friday, but no luck. Tried again from the call-box near the station after work, but still no answer, so I guessed they must have gone off somewhere, well, to get over the shock of the doctor’s death. People do things like that. They figure that if they go somewhere different, away from familiar things, everything will be fine. Forget that they take it with them inside, at least that’s how it looks to me. I mean, wherever they go they’ll be thinking of the thing they went away from, so what’s the use? Better to stay where you are and get on with it.
Wouldn’t have taken such a lot for her to have said they might be going away for a while though. I mean, I said I would telephone, so she couldn’t imagine I meant next month or next year. Anyway, I telephoned twice next day, the Saturday, and still no answer, so I phoned Ruth, the bird I’d met at the coffee bar up West. Rang her at the Willesden number she’d given me, and her mother answered and said Ruth wasn’t there and would I try anoth
er number at Kensington. So I rang this other number and this bird answered and I asked for Ruth and she came on the line. Said she was spending the week-end with a girlfriend from her office. Having a party that night, and would I like to come? Her voice sounded nice and friendly, as if we’d known each other for years. Said she’d recognized mine as soon as she’d heard it. Started kidding about how she knew I’d ring, that’s why she’d left the number with her mother. All in one breath, you know, excited. Makes you feel good inside when somebody’s so pleased just to talk to you over the ruddy phone. Funny thing. Talking to Ruth my mind kept switching over to that other one, wondering if she’d sound the same. Told Ruth okay, I’d meet her at South Ken station at seven-thirty.
While getting things organized to go and meet Ruth, giving my shoes the old spit and polish and pressing a suit, I got to thinking about things. Whenever I’m doing these familiar chores my mind seems to be better able to look around and examine all kinds of little details which normally I overlook. Like this thing with Mum. It suddenly came to me that since Dave wasn’t there any more, Mum never stayed up nights. At least not so you’d notice.
Now I remembered that night I’d been up West and met Ruth I’d got home around eleven-thirty or so, anyway it was before midnight and the house was in darkness as usual, because our Dad and Mum always turned in around eleven except if someone came visiting and stayed late. I went in and was undressing when it struck me that something was different about the place, some little thing I couldn’t put my finger on. Same thing last night. Went to the local flicks and got in just after eleven. Now, sitting there polishing my shoes, it came to me. The bedroom door. Our Dad and Mum’s. Both times it was closed. That was it. The ruddy door was closed. I mean, in all the years since Dave and me had been big enough to stay out a bit late it was open. Not wide, just enough so Mum could hear us. And we sort of looked forward to it, like a signal or something. Used to kid each other about it. If ever we were held up anywhere at night and the time was getting on, one of us would say, ‘Come on, let’s hurry it up. Time our Mum was asleep.’
The way the thing hit me I must have lost track of time or something like that, because the next thing I know our Dad is standing beside me with his hand on my shoulder saying, ‘Don’t take it so hard, Son. It could have been any one of us.’
And then I felt the tears on my face. I didn’t say anything to him, but put down the shoes and went up to the bathroom. Funny how a little thing like that can get you, deep down inside where all the big, terrible things can’t touch you. It was as if Mum had said to herself, well, Dave’s gone, so there’s nothing to wait up for. Christ, I wished it was me who’d had the ruddy accident, then everybody would be happy. I hated myself for the weakness of tears, but they wouldn’t bloody well stop, just pouring out of me as if I’d been wanting to cry for years and years. I sat down on the lav. wondering what the hell to do. Probably the best thing was to get out and find some digs somewhere. No point in hanging around when you’re not wanted.
Mum knocked on the door to ask if I’m okay and I say yes. Our Dad must have said something to her. Let them think I was crying because of Dave, they’d never hear different from me. Wish I could write things down like Dave, poems and things, so I could put it down in a book just to tell it without telling it to anybody. Just for myself. Not for reading by anyone else. Like Dave once said. Some songs are not for singing. Funny that I didn’t understand it at the time. I got dressed and was putting on my shoes but the left one wouldn’t go on. The bloody handkerchief I’d stuffed in there. Christ, if Baldy could have seen that. I flushed it down the lavatory on my way down.
Getting my train I noticed how nobody looked at you. The ticket seller behind the perspex window with the little holes in it for hearing merely inclined his head to hear your destination and whether you wanted a single or return, then looked at the counter below the window to take your money. The ticket collector either clipped your ticket or waved you on, depending on how he felt. They must be really bored with all the people coming in and out never really noticing them. No wonder Baldy didn’t get much change out of the fellow at Whitechapel. For all I knew he might have been here too to find out if Dave or both of us passed through the night of the accident. The way these fellows didn’t notice anything. Must have made old Baldy want to tear what little hair he could still boast of combing.
Chapter
Ten
THEY CHARGED THROUGH THE still opening doors at Mile End and tumbled into nearby seats, a bunch of laughing, chattering teenage girls, overlarge handbags swinging as they jostled to sit beside one another. Real and dyed blondes, brunettes and a Spade, all pretty and excited, laughing and talking in the same breath. Reminded me of something I’d read in Dave’s book, about Teds:
Teds
… Clad tight
In the resilient armour of their youth,
And bright contempt which threatened as it mocked
The wavering eyes of all who censured them …
Modishly dressed in various versions of the same stiletto-heeled shoes, swagger coats and hairstyles. Some chewing gum.
‘Come on, Brenda, fetch it out.’
‘Hey, don’t mind me, it’s only me leg you’re crushing. Give over.’
‘Yeah, Brenda, let’s hear me stars.’
‘That’s the only thing me Mum reads in the Mirror. The other day after she finished reading the paper me Dad said to her what’s that about a strike at Fords and she didn’t even know what he was on about.’
‘What’s yours, Elaine?’
‘Hey, wait a minute. Turn back that last page. Me new skirt’s just like that. Bought it up the Lane. Two quid. Five pounds at least up West.’
‘Sagittarius.’
‘What’s it mean.’
‘Pipe down and listen. An old friend will be prominent in your week’s activities. Be decisive in your actions. You will find it will pay. Seek new and stimulating companions.’
‘Crikey.’
‘Hey, Doris, Bill still coming around?’
‘That German boy staying over at Sheila’s Mum’s, he’s ever so nice. Been out with him twice. I like him ’cos he always pays when we go to the flicks and things.’
‘You coming hopping this year, Doris?’
A tight, closed group, the Spade as much a part of it as any other. And funny to hear the ordinary English voice coming out of her. Just to make sure I closed my eyes, and they all sounded alike, all the voices having that breathless urgency as if they were already late for living and had lots of catching up to do. And all that funny, meaningless talk. I looked at them again, and one or two looked across and smiled impudently, then giggled among themselves. When the Spade laughed her face dimpled and rounded until the eyes were nearly hidden. No break in their chatter even when the train reached Charing Cross and they rushed wildly out.
There was no sign of Ruth at South Ken station so I went into a phone booth to try again, meanwhile keeping a watch out for her through the glass. After a few rings and just as I was about to replace the receiver, someone answered. Mrs Spencer. So I told her it was me and could I speak to Miss Spencer, please? And she said she was sorry but Michelle had just gone out. Was there any message? And I said no, I’d promised to telephone her some time and I’d just remembered. Then I said I hoped she, Mrs Spencer, was okay, and she said yes, she was fine. They’d been down to the coast in Devon for a few days and it had been wonderful. And thank you for ringing and she’d tell Michelle that I phoned. So I said yes, please, and if she’d be in tomorrow afternoon I’d give her a ring. Then she said she was sure Michelle would be in, they usually were in on Sunday afternoon, and would I like to come over to tea? And I said yes, thanks.
Funny how a little thing like talking to somebody on the phone can affect the weather. I mean, a dull, cloudy evening suddenly becomes fine and wonderful, and you get the feeling you’re big enough t
o do anything. Anything.
It was good to see Ruth. Without the dumpy sweater she seemed taller, slimmer, in a plain, close fitting sleeveless dress of tartan design, high-heeled red court shoes and her hair tied with a bright red ribbon, ponytail style. She seemed happy to see me, and tucked her arm under mine as if we were sweethearts or something, chatting about the party and all the nice people I’d meet.
We went down some stairs to a basement flat thick with cigarette smoke, talk and music. All young people, mostly student types, I thought. Ruth drew me in turn to several little groups standing about or sitting on sofas or the floor, who waved or said, ‘Hi’, and went on with their talk. The music was from a guitar played by a fellow with long hair and turtleneck sweater, sitting on the floor with several fellows and girls around him. They’d wait for him to get started on a song, then join in the singing if they knew the words. Some merely clapped hands softly. One of the fellows was coloured, thin-faced with large eyes and the beginnings of a beard. Ruth sat down with this group and pulled me down beside her.
The song died and the guitarman picked a few chords then started in on ‘Swing low, sweet chariot’, all of them taking it up, even Ruth. And the Spade not singing, but humming in deep tones while miming the playing of a double bass, puffing out his cheeks in mimicry of some musician whose antics were well known to the group. The song ended with lots of laughter. Sitting there I had a wonderful feeling of warmth, as if I’d known them all a long time. Even the Spade. His being there didn’t matter. I mean I wasn’t bothered by it. They started another song. I shifted around till I got my back braced against a wall, my legs stretched out comfortably. Then Ruth wriggled around to lean against my chest, her hair smelling clean of soap and health.